


Unseen Scars

by sarai377



Series: Protected [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, M/M, Omega Grima, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarai377/pseuds/sarai377
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being soundly defeated and having his powers stripped away, Grima is forced to relearn how to be human - which includes taking ownership of some of the wicked things he's done. Takes place after the Endgame.</p><p>A continuation of the original Protected timeline, focused on the Robin who was possessed by Grima. </p><p>(One-sided Grima/Chrom, eventual Grima/Frederick. Minor Robin/Chrom)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Grima is not a trustworthy narrator, and the assumptions he makes are often deliberate untruths. 
> 
> Blood and self-harm/suicide warnings. (This ended up being a lot darker than I expected…)

Chapter 1

 

Grima stalks through the halls of the Ylissean palace, absently clawing at the scarred markings on his cheeks. He wishes they would fade, because they remind him of the power he once held, dominion over everything and everyone.

Sunlight splashes in through the windows, pooling in slanted rectangles beneath Grima’s feet.

 _“I hate you! You’re not my father. You killed both of them and I hate you!”_ Lucina’s sharp words rip through him again and again. Her voice was rough, tarnished, and he knows she was lying at least somewhat, in that she doesn’t hate him completely. But it is the truthful part that hurts, digging its claws into him.

He probably shouldn't have approached her, but the ache in his chest made him do it. And now he finds himself in a miserable mood of his own making.

Grima barely notices Frederick gliding along behind him, ever watchful. The knight has been assigned to him as both guide and guard. He's been less than helpful in both regards over the past five months. Frederick was to keep watch over Grima. They all assumed the former god would get into mischief without a constant babysitter.

 _Let them hate you_ , the serpentine voice floods his thoughts. He feels his eyes go faintly scarlet, the aching burn in his eye sockets as flames flicker in them. _We can still hurt them all_. There’s no power left in Grima, barely enough to light his eyes aflame, but he could still hurt them. The things he could do or say, twisting words like a knife...

“No,” he says, and digs a little harder into his cheek, nail caught on the edge of one etched eyelid. The sting brings him back.

“We should return to your room,” Frederick says. Grima casts a dark glare back at the alpha with him.

He remembers staring down at Frederick’s dead, broken corpse, the accusatory stare from those unseeing brown eyes. Despite himself, Grima shudders, and stands still in the darkness between windows.

 _We should kill him,_ that voice muses. Lucina’s voice - _I hate you!_ \- speaks over it.

“I’ve had enough of killing,” he mutters.

Beside him, Frederick pauses, and his hand goes to the blade at his side.

It makes Grima smile. Part of him - a portion he’s not sure he wants to identify - wants to provoke Frederick into drawing that blade on him. He's a leftover remnant of something that should have died a while ago. Soundly defeated, a prisoner of war, kept alive because the thought of killing him is too painful.

But instead of turning to the knight and spitting out a crude comment, he continues walking. After a few moments, Frederick follows.

Would he have stopped Lucina if she lunged at Grima?  The knight is supposedly there for Grima’s protection - to keep the others from harming him. Resentment will always run high for the man who systematically destroyed their future in another time, and tried to destroy it in this one, as well. But Lucina has more reason than most to wish him dead.

Grima is mortal now, and Falchion is always sharp, for the right wielder. It wouldn’t take a full-force blow to pierce his body, to separate soul from flesh.

For a moment he’d thought Lucina would do it. The threat was there in her eyes, right before she’d yelled at him and stormed off. He can remember the very first moment he’d cradled her in his arms, Chrom a loving presence to the side of him. She’d screamed, of course - most newborns did, but then briefly she’d settled down and squinted at him, regarding him with strange serenity.

_You are not my father._

Grima has been given nice rooms. They aren’t _his_ rooms, of course - the real Robin still inhabits them, although the Royal Consort spends most nights nowadays in the Exalted Suite. The suite Grima has been given is rather nicer than he deserves, but he isn’t about to ask to be held in the dungeons. Still, he knows the room for what it is: a nicely-appointed cage.

He shoves the door open. The knight follows him into the sitting room, but allows Grima to retreat to his bedroom without comment. Grima curls up amid soft pillows and blankets, even though it's only mid afternoon.

Frederick had the right of it all those years ago, Grima thinks, still feeling the pressure of Frederick’s eyes boring into his back. Frederick didn’t trust him then, and he doesn’t trust Grima now.

Good.

 ~*~

Grima doesn’t dream anymore. But for some reason, a memory resurfaces when he closes his eyes in his curtain-darkened room.

It’s not one of the memories he enjoys.

Victory - he can taste it, imminently. Chrom approaches, Falchion clutched in his hands. Fury and flames dance around inside of Grima, gathering up power to strike him down. But as he stands there, power swirling around him in the winds… He feels it.

It shocks him through, almost as if someone had slashed through his whole body, severing synapses, bone, and flesh. The power fades away in confusion, and he blinks up at Chrom’s brilliant blue eyes, almost glowing with alpha.

When Chrom touches his face, Grima closes his eyes. Grima _rubs_ his cheek against the hastily ungloved hand, like a tame animal.

No, this is all wrong. He is not a creature to call or calm. He bares his teeth and snarls. He is GRIMA. He is death.

He is also omega, and for better or worse, Chrom is his alpha.

A miscalculation. Inside of him, something weak and sickly is rejoicing. Grima made a mistake. He forgot how… attracted to Chrom he was. How hard it had been that first time, to kill him. How his body had mourned Chrom’s death for weeks. And for a moment, he accepts the touch.

Grima hesitates, and Chrom moves in. Swift as lightning, Chrom bites him. Euphoria floods his body, a wave of emotion, of longing. Grima hears himself sobbing, crying, begging for Chrom’s forgiveness.

Pitiful, he thinks, but he can't stop it.

“Just kill me,” he begs, even as he draws Chrom closer.

Thankfully, the memory morphs into something else. Before he is forced to relive his worst moments. Before Chrom mates him and shatters his power, before he goes into his first heat since Chrom’s death - the scene shifts.

Chrom looks at him with dead eyes, his decaying hands holding Grima tight. They are in the hall where Chrom died, so many years ago. Shouts and metallic clangs echo all around them, but Grima can’t see the battle or the barrier.

“What have you done to our children?” Chrom demands.

They still live, Grima wants to tell Chrom. They live, in spite of everything I did. He doesn’t know if that makes him happy or sad. Still, he can’t deny the rush of relief when Chrom’s hands move from his shoulders to his neck. He is mortal, now, and the sharpening ache in his chest feels real.

Even though this Chrom is dead, he still smells of alpha. His alpha is suffocating the life out of him. This isn't how it's supposed to be. Grima thrashes against him, clawing at the ethereal hands at his throat.

Sunlight streams in beneath partially closed eyelids, startling him awake. He’s caught halfway between past and present, certain for a moment that Chrom is there beside him, haunting him. But it’s only the sheet tangled around his neck. He shoves it away, gasping in a deep breath.

The sound of curtains being drawn along metal rods grates on his ears. Grima squints out, but he knows who is doing this almost before he is fully awake.

“Leave me be,” he growls.

Frederick shoots him a strange look before opening the next curtain. The sun gleams golden with a reddish cast in the distance, almost to sunset. “Your presence is required at dinner.”

Grima sits up and passes his hand over his eyes. What will they do if he refuses to come down, today of all days? Frederick probably has orders to bodily drag him to the hall.

He rises and pads over to Frederick, then stands beside him with arms crossed. If he's being forced to join, Frederick will know his displeasure.

Frederick sighs. “Stop moping and get ready. You have ten minutes.”

~*~ 

That evening he steals a knife from the table, while nobody is watching. They don't normally watch him anyway during those infrequent times he attends.

He sits at the bottom of the table, far away from the Exalt, and those unfortunate enough to be placed beside him tend to ignore him. When he is forced to attend functions like this, Grima goes out of his way to make his tablemates uncomfortable; it pleases him, to control such a thing, but the unfamiliar woman today has been warned, and she doesn’t even greet him. Her eyes go wide as she looks at his cheeks, and then she glances back at Frederick.

Frederick’s hand lands hard on his shoulder. “Stay here, and don’t get up. I’ll return for you when dinner is over.”

Grima doesn’t deign to answer Frederick’s commands, even though he chafes under them. He shrugs sharply and the knight lets go. As Frederick turns away, Grima glares at the set china and silverware. He’s not some demure omega, to obey any alpha’s commands mindlessly. He had killed or attempted to kill almost every person at the table. He had defeated them all, and they humiliate him by forcing him to wait here.

Robin sits at the head of the table beside the Exalt, visibly pregnant and glowing. Grima tries not to stare at the man he used to be and the man he once loved, but it's difficult. Feelings surge in his chest as he watches the Exalt drink his glass of wine, until finally he forces his eyes away.

He hates being here. Here in Ylisstol, here in this castle, here with all his happy memories that still hurt… he tugs on the blue napkin, a thread at the edge coming free beneath his fingernail.

Grima had been happy here, once. When he'd accidentally run into Chrom and the others, helped them fend off those thieves, and eventually fallen in love with the alpha prince. There had been pain, and trials, but they were overshadowed by the little moments of what he now knows were domestic bliss. Becoming the Consort, bearing Chrom children… fighting beside him when Plegia attacked.

Grima had burned the castle to the ground, and yet here it stood. And there sat his past, except they had moved beyond him.

_They don't need you._

“I know.”

_We could hurt them still._

Grima thinks about it, his fingers unraveling the strand from the napkin, bunching up the fabric as he unweaves the thread, like ripples in time. He sees how much damage he could do with this one steak knife, the deaths unfolding in his mind's eye. _We'd make a beeline for the Exalt_ , the voice soothes. _This knife isn't the best tool but it can take him down as easily as our magic did._

“No.”

The woman seated next to him casts him a wary look. Grima must be talking to himself again. He takes a drink of water from his goblet and sighs.

His eyes fall on Frederick, across the room. He's standing straight and tall behind the Exalt, stern and disapproving as always.

Nobody is looking at Grima.

He gathers the damaged napkin, hovering it over the utensils for a moment, and pockets the knife in a smooth motion. Blood thrums in his ears, nervous that someone saw his action. But as conversation flows like a stream around him, the immovable boulder, and no heavy hand falls on his shoulder, Grima realizes he's done it. He’s successfully procured a weapon.

Dinner drags on, and Grima shoves whatever is placed before him into his mouth, mindlessly. With his power shattered, he needs food to sustain his body. Nothing has ever tasted as good as the feast of souls he’d taken at the Table, after killing his mate.

As coffee circulates, the pregnant Robin comes to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. The Exalt grips his arm protectively until Robin steadies. Then Robin takes a water glass and taps it with a fork. The clear sound rings through the cavernous hall, stopping all conversation.

Grima draws in a breath and holds it, staring at the happiness he’d thrown away. There's no way to reconcile the fact that his mate is dead and gone, and everything in this hall tonight reminds him of that fact.

“We've gathered you all here today to celebrate a birthday,” Robin says, his eyes alight with good cheer. “Our daughter Lucina turns seventeen today.” He gestures across the table, toward Lucina.

Grima hadn't looked at her before this, but he studies her, now. She is wearing a soft white dress, and her hair is tied back into a loose braid. She looks a young woman, a princess. His daughter.

It fractures Grima a bit to see the embarrassed smile perched on her lips. He's… proud, even as he hears her voice echoing in his head. _I hate you!_

Lucina smiles at the Exalt, and at Robin. She doesn't so much as glance Grima’s way.

Grima suddenly understands why he’s here.

His chair scrapes unnoticed in the applause and cheers, and he storms from the hall.

 ~*~

The stolen knife flips back and forth between hands as he studies his face in the mirror. He doesn’t notice as the blade slips along his finger. Blood drips down into the curve of the sink.

Lucina is finally moving past him. After everything Grima did to her, she's found a caring, supportive family.

Grima should be happy, but he knows that they allowed him to be there to mock him. To prove that they had won, and now they would reap the happiness of his daughters, rub it in his face.

Lucina and Morgan deserved more from him than a world filled with death. That Robin in the hall, he gave it to them, when Grima could not.

A feral noise rips from his mouth, pain echoing around him.

 _Soon, Frederick will come to check on us_ , the voice soothes. _He'll be angry that we left without his permission._

Grima chuckles mirthlessly. Good. He likes when Frederick gets cross with him.

He grips the worn handle of the blade, the rivets cold beneath his fingers, and raises it contemplatively to his face. The serration ripples his cheek where he presses it, reflecting the soft glow of the candles.  

For an instant, he sees the flash of Lucina’s blue eyes, so much like her father's, in the shining reflection from the polished blade. _I hate you._

Grima turns the point to dig in beneath his markings.

There's a faint noise outside the bathroom, a boot scuffing the floor. He spins, slipping the knife into his cloak pocket.

“Are you in there?” It’s Frederick. The voice is muffled through the door, but he can still tell the knight is annoyed by the tension between his syllables.

Grima reaches for the door and draws it open. Frederick peers in, and for an instant, a trick of the light, he almost thinks Frederick is _worried._

Grima goes on the offensive immediately. “Did you think I would sit through that like a dumb mute? That's why they brought me there, isn't it? To stand by while my - Lucina…” He trails off, and then renews his train of thought elsewhere. “I hate all of you.”

Frederick eyebrows have come together again, almost curiously.

“I asked for you to be there,” a voice speaks from beyond Frederick.

Grima freezes as Robin waddles into view. His eyes go to the swell in his midsection, and then dart back to glare at Frederick. He wouldn’t have opened the door if he knew _Robin_ was here. It feels like a betrayal.

“Come out here and let’s have a talk.” Robin doesn’t smile, but his gesture is kindly. There’s pity in Robin’s every move. Grima’s teeth grind together, but he moves past Frederick and into the sitting room.

The pregnant omega groans as he sits on the couch, hand going to his distended belly.

Grima remembers being that pregnant. 

He sits far away on the other side of the couch, arms crossed. They regard each other in silence for a few moments - the same man, separated by one death.

 _We could kill him right now,_ the voice breathes, reminding him of the knife in his pocket. _Force_ him _to feel what we’ve felt._

“I thought you would like to celebrate your daughter's birthday with us,” Robin says.

His other self has always been like this, sensitive and willing to help anyone who needs it. Grima has rejected every one of his friendly overtures, except one.

“You did this to mock me,” Grima says.

Robin clicks his tongue. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.” His eyes, dark without a glimmer of redness, stare into Grima.

“She hates me.” The words slip out before he can stop them. Immediately he bites his tongue and looks away. Robin makes him feel things. Things that he’s buried deep inside, feelings deeper than scars. Love, affection, loss…

Robin scoots awkwardly across the couch and takes Grima’s hand. “I know.” He pats the top of it. Robin’s Grimleal mark is gone, but Grima’s peeks out from between his fingers.

The touch of skin, when nobody else ever wants to touch him, burns. Grima glares at him, then at Frederick. He doesn’t pull away, though. He craves even this small, insignificant contact.

Robin continues after a moment, “But you still love her.”

 _Lies_ , the voice cries inside, but Grima does love both his daughters. He has forgotten to breathe for a few moments, and he sucks in a hasty breath, flooded with that omega scent.

“You should let Morgan see you,” Robin continues, and it’s almost like he read Grima’s mind, bringing up his other child. The one that probably grows in Robin’s body right before them. Maybe this one will grow up normal. “She’s been asking after you.”

See Morgan? No, not with Lucina’s hatred lingering so close. He doesn’t think he can take it if Morgan rejects him too.

“No. I won’t.” Grima starts to stand, and Robin drops the subject with a sigh.

“Fine. Maybe another time.” Robin tugs insistently on Grima’s hand, drawing him close. Grima knows what Robin is offering. There is peace in the scent of another omega, and Robin smells particularly calming because he’s pregnant. Grima can smell him from here. To his surprise, he _wants_ to lean against him, to feel comforted, even if it’s offered with some unknown strings attached.

Grima resists that urge. He stays upright, not allowing his spine to curl toward Robin. He doesn’t need comfort; he doesn’t deserve it. And especially not from this man. Grima narrows his eyes. “Why don’t you hate me?”

Robin frowns, and searches Grima’s face for a moment, looking for something. “Part of me does,” he admits, thumb rubbing gently across the mark on Grima's skin. “But I know you. You are me, and I see where I would be, if you hadn’t tried to merge with me, back before I met the Shepherds.”

“So I’m your cautionary tale?” Grima rips his hand from Robin’s. “You keep me around to remind yourself of how things could have gone very wrong.” He shoots to his feet and looms over Robin, who watches with a level of calm that nobody should have. Pity again flashes across his unscarred face.

Grima’s eyes go red with a shimmer of pain.

“Stop that.” Frederick moves forward, and the motion draws Grima’s focus to him. Making eye contact with an alpha isn’t smart. At one time he knew how to manipulate alphas into doing what he wanted without challenging them like this. But he doesn’t want to coerce, right now. He wants a fight, wants to feel someone's pain other than his own, so he stares at Frederick.

He hears Robin sigh, but he refuses to glance at the pregnant omega. Grima turns so that his body is squarely facing Frederick, and Frederick rises to the challenge in his eyes.

Frederick approaches. Skin and breath put off a heat between them, as if they might spark if they touch. Frederick’s alpha presence strains the room, and Grima feels that compulsion to grovel, to submit. His mind pauses for a split second.

 _We won’t be cowed by you_.

Grima’s eyes burn, but he welcomes the familiar sensation, the urge to destroy. It keeps him from submitting.

“I remember killing you,” he whispers. “You died alone, no friends or companions or children to remember you by.”

Frederick’s hand tightens into a fist. He’s thinking about striking at Grima.

But instead of getting angry as he had the many other times Grima has poked at him, his voice sounds… sad. “You’re going to die alone if you keep pushing everyone away.”

Grima blinks. _Kill him. Take out the knife and stab it into his heart_.

“No,” he breathes aloud in response to the homicidal suggestion in his head. But Frederick’s words are seeping into him like a foul poison, and deep inside, Grima knows that Frederick is right. He is going to die alone. “I am already alone,” he says.

That sends confusion moving through Frederick’s expression, his eyebrows rising up, that scowl slackening for a moment. And then hot fury takes over. Warning shoots down Grima’s spine, that feeling he’s familiar with after months of goading Frederick. Grima smiles, and readies another insult.

“Enough,” Robin says, and pushes the two of them gently apart. Frederick glares at Grima, but doesn't dare push past Robin to get at him. And Grima could give him one last parting shot, as Robin herds Frederick out… but he doesn't. It feels almost like he pushed Frederick too hard, although he's not sure why he cares.

It's a stalemate between them, for now.

 ~*~

Grima presses his ear to the door when it closes behind Robin, curious to hear what they might say behind his back.

“How is he?”

It's _Chrom_. He wasn't ready to hear his voice. Does the Exalt actually care about Grima? No, he’s just hanging around because his mate is here. Grima drags out the knife and places the tip against the door, beside his shoulder.

“His usual confrontational self,” Frederick sighs.

“Does he usually say things like that to you, Frederick?” Robin, now.

“Not like that. He's hurt and lashing out.” Frederick’s tone goes soft, and Grima has to press his whole torso to the door to make it out. “Lucina told him she hated him today, and that he killed both of her parents.”

There's silence, a cold emptiness that Grima can't interpret. He twists the knife against the door, wanting to urge them to move on, to stop dissecting the sad state of his existence.

“That's terrible,” Robin says finally. “And I brought her up.”

The Exalt asks, “What did he say to you, Frederick?”

“Nothing I haven't heard before.”

Frederick is lying. Grima has never told him that before today. He'd been angry when Grima said it. So why lie about it?

“Give him a couple of days, and he'll be back to normal.” Frederick sounds so confident, as if he’s got Grima all figured out. A snarl curls Grima’s upper lip.

“It’s been five months,” Robin says. His voice grows quieter - they must be moving down the hall. “How much longer do you think…”

Grima slides down the door, his cloak pooling around him.

 _We'll kill them all soon,_ the voice promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a few month’s fanfic block, I'm finally putting out content again. Shout out to Zet, who really helped me get my fanfic mojo back. 
> 
> Right now I expect there will be two more chapters to this fic, around the same length. Not sure when I'll post them, but I'm still working on them and some other things in this omegaverse (as well as continuations to a few of my other fanfics).
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning in case anyone missed the note from the first chapter - There is a scene of self-harm in this chapter, and I expect there will be at least one more in a future scene.

Chapter 2

 

It has been two days since he stole the knife, and Grima watches the early morning sun rise over the gardens. He hasn’t seen a dawn like this in a long time. He perches on the balcony ledge, feet dangling over the side. Far below him lies the hard stone walkway that edges the gardens.

He’s not afraid of the height, not after soaring with the dragon. Being linked to the dragon’s essence, flying high in the sky, unafraid of arrows or the tumble to the earth far below… _that_ was exhilarating. Grima loves flying, and now he will never experience it again.

It will only be a matter of time before Frederick comes with breakfast. He will check in on Grima, who usually sleeps until midday. For some reason, he roused with the sun this morning, feeling awake and particularly agitated.

Frederick will likely scold him for sitting so perilously on the sturdy stone railing. He leans over, studying the pattern in the stones - large, large, small, fitting together almost seamlessly. Would anyone really care if he threw himself off? Frederick might be upset to find Grima took the plunge, seeing as how he has been charged with looking after Graim. It’s more likely that he would feel relieved this burden would be taken from him.

Grima knows Robin would care, although he’s still not sure why Robin is so concerned with Grima’s wellbeing. But everyone else… no, they hold no love for Grima.

Grima leans back to look into the sky. It is a rather nice color of pink, and the sun feels warm and pleasing. Is it good or bad that he’s starting to notice things like the warmth of the sun, the shift of the breeze? He doesn’t know.

When he looks back down, he spots two familiar figures walking between the hedgerows in the garden. He grips the stone on either side of his thighs, awareness coursing through his veins.

They walk hand in hand. Grima is at the perfect angle to watch the Exalt’s hand sweep in to brush across his Consort’s stomach. They think they’re alone, unseen, and Grima suddenly wishes he could unsee this.

_I hate them_ , he thinks, his knuckles white as he squeezes on the rough stone. _I hate everyone here. Robin, Lucina, Frederick… everyone._ _I wish they were all dead._

His vision blurs with heat, but not with Grima’s residual power. No, those are tears, and they slip out and trail down his nose as he leans over, watching the mated pair as they sneak a private moment.

_We could kill them all_ , that voice whispers in a soothing way.

Grima shakes his head and sniffs. “I wish _I_ was dead,” he says, very quietly.

The voice goes silent.

There’s a soft creak behind him, as the door opens. Just what he needs - a distraction, in the form of Frederick. With a careful swipe of his ragged sleeve, his tears are tucked away, but he stays on the ledge, waiting for Frederick to notice him there, and scold him. This isn’t the first time he’s sat here, but it will be the first time Frederick catches him.

“Breakfast is served,” a soft voice calls from the living room.

It is not Frederick.

Grima immediately swings his legs back over the ledge and dashes through the bedroom door.

An unfamiliar servant looks up from placing the platter on the empty desk. His eyes grow wide as he stares at Grima’s scarred cheeks. He knows who Grima is - every Ylissean has heard the tale of how the Exalt tamed Grima and broke his power. This servant was warned about him, he’s sure, but the terror in his eyes is satisfying. He is just a nervous beta, easily manipulated. They wouldn't dare send an unfamiliar alpha into Grima’s rooms, and omegas are rare enough that he doubts he'll ever get close to another one, barring Robin.

A chill slips through Grima, even as he straightens and gives the man a disgusted snarl. “Where is Frederick?”

“I don’t know,” the man responds, nervously adjusting his brown vest. “I - I was told you wouldn’t be awake yet. Shall I go find him for you?”

Grima waves him off. “Don’t bother.” The last thing he needs is for this servant to misconstrue his question, and to tell Frederick that Grima was asking after him... as if he cared about Frederick’s presence.

The servant sounds nervous as he asks, “Do you need anything else?”

At Grima’s unchanging expression, the beta folds his hands together and gives a bow. The brown vest reminds Grima of Frederick.

He waits until the servant has closed the door, then lifts the silver cover from the plate. He stares through the food, stomach curdling uncomfortably. Where is Frederick? Instead of taking the food, he reaches for the cup of coffee, bringing the steaming mug to his face. The caustic scent is soothing, clouding his senses, which feel as if they’ve been rubbed a little raw.

Frederick has been his near-constant companion for the past five months. This absence probably means nothing, and Frederick will show up again around lunchtime. It is stupid to expect that he is Frederick’s only or even most important assignment.

Perhaps Frederick is so buried in self-appointed tasks that he needs the morning to deal with them. The knight does tend to gather up tasks until he is nearly overwhelmed with them, and then power through them until he collapses. He was like that back in Grima’s time, too. More than once over the past few months, Grima found Frederick asleep in the armchair, his paperwork slipping haphazardly over his knees and to the floor.

Once, Frederick even brought his knitting. Grima had mocked him for that, and he’s never seen the yarn and needles again.

Maybe he should consider being nicer to Frederick.

Grima clicks his teeth against the ceramic of the cup, and dismisses that idea immediately.

~*~

When Frederick’s unexplained absence drags on through lunch, Grima finds himself drawn to the palace outside. The silence inside his quarters is deafening and makes his thoughts run too loud, as if they echo without someone’s presence to bounce off of. Even bothering the servant when he returned with lunch hadn’t given him more than momentary relief. Grima even wishes that Robin would visit, even though he doesn’t like their uncomfortable discussions. The Consort is probably busy with preparing for the imminent birth, and in stabilizing Ylisse after all that Grima had done.

He opens the door and leans his cheek against the frame, peering about. There are no soldiers or guards standing in the hallway. Grima is truly alone and unwatched. It is disconcerting. Frederick probably assumed he wouldn’t leave his room, because he spends most of his time in it.

_We don’t need anyone to watch over us. We can keep ourselves safe._

The halls whisper to him, and he slips through the door. He holds his head high, watching his surroundings, peeking back over his shoulder from time to time, but no alarm is raised, no companion comes running to follow him.

He is alone.

Grima wanders in solitude for a few minutes. He ducks into a darkened alcove as two politicians walk past, even though he could have approached them, just to experience their fear or discomfort at seeing him. They are discussing Plegia, and he tries to focus on them, but as they walk past, he finds he doesn’t much care about the happenings of his homeland.

Almost accidentally, his feet bring him to the door leading into the well-kept courtyard where Chrom had nearly been killed, years ago. Grima suddenly grows aware of the long-healed scars on his shoulder, wounds he had sustained while hovering over Chrom, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It had been the first time Grima truly realized his mate’s mortality. Before that point, Chrom was powerful and invincible, and his alpha would protect them both. They were in love, and the city prospered under Emmeryn’s sage guidance.

But then Emmeryn was murdered, and Chrom nearly killed as well. They’d guarded each other’s lives closely after his recovery.

_Not close enough_ , the voice taunts, and Grima shudders.

Voices and laughter surprise him as he pushes the door open, and he ducks to the heavy evergreen shrubs that line the grassy expanse. A chiming sweep of magic rings out, and he distinctly hears Robin saying, “Good, that’s it!”

The loud voices stand defiant against Grima’s horrible memories of this courtyard. To Robin, it is just a place where assassins were deflected, a horror avoided.

In the sound of Robin’s voice, Grima remembers a scene, one in which he explained to his wide-eyed seven-year-old daughter what had nearly happened here. Lucina had tightened her hands into little fists and promised, with the innocent certainty of childhood, that she would never let anything bad happen to either of her parents. Grima had ruffled her hair and smiled.

Three short years later, one of her parents became an evil god, and the other died at his hand.

Grima is shivering, and his hand rubs at the scars on his shoulder. If he doesn’t want to be caught wandering alone, he should go. He turns.

Something - someone - catches his eye, and he stops.

Morgan stands, back toward him, with a thick tome tucked into the crook of her elbow. She chants under her breath, and a swirl of brilliant magic wraps around her.

Robin’s pleased expression is lit up with turquoise as the magic shoots across the courtyard. “Excellent aim, Morgan. Again!”

Morgan nods, hair swishing, and Grima rubs his scarred cheek almost absently against the prickly shrub he’s hiding behind. She’s come so far under Robin’s tutelage, using powerful magics she struggled with before. It’s almost an afterthought, training her in magic now, but just because Grima has been defeated doesn't mean there won’t be man-made war.

If facing Lucina’s hatred was hard, then seeing Morgan’s innocence is proving even more painful. It is impossible to look at her and not see the little girl who wanted to follow in his footsteps.

His eyes blur, and sudden dizziness has him grasping at the bush.

Grima doesn't hear the pause in the magical practice, nor the soft gasp of surprise.

“Papa?” She sounds so real, more than a fond memory. Then he feels a tentative hand in his wrist, tugging at his hand, as if drawing him forward.

His eyes fly open, surprise shooting red through his vision.

Morgan stands before him, not a phantom girl, but the almost-adult fourteen-year-old he had seen in that final battle. She smiles at him, oblivious to the ache in his heart, the warning in scarlet eyes. She’s simply glad to see him.

Scars line one side of her face, slipping down her right cheek in an attempt to match Grima’s. Her left side is empty, unmarked. Red, vacant eyes stare at Grima from his daughter's cheek as she gives him a hesitant smile.

There’s a terrible laugh in his mind as he looks at her.

“I've missed you, Papa,” she says. “Did you... see my magic?”

He wants to answer, to show his pride. To tell her what a wonderful young woman she’s become... but he can’t. To answer her questions would be to accept that he was her father, _is_ her father, and he can’t do that.

She comes close as he hesitates, and to his surprise she hugs him. Grima stiffens almost immediately. Morgan is a beta, so she has little scent to upset his omega, but her arms feel like ropes around him, binding him tight. Grima grips her shoulders and pushes her back, and refuses to meet her eye. His breath is coming in shallow spurts, and he feels his shoulders hunching over.

“Papa? What’s wrong?” Disappointment lurks in her voice.

It sets a fiery anger deep in his gut, confronted with his daughter’s reaction. He’s disappointed in himself, too, but she doesn’t understand that. She can’t, because she only sees the father she remembers from long ago. Before he erased all her memories and cast her through the portal, to follow her sister.

“I… should go.” Grima turns almost blindly. His heart races, pounding an erratic beat through his body.

“But…”

“Let him go, Morgan.” Robin says it gently. “He’s not ready.”

He doesn’t like to hear Robin make excuses for him, but Grima can’t turn around, can’t explain to Morgan how seeing her face and her cheer makes his hate burn even brighter.

As he reaches the door and passes inside, he hears Morgan ask, in a quavering tone, “Robin… do you think he hates me?”

He could stay to listen to Robin’s answer, but instead he breaks into a run.

Grima can't get away from the memories, though. They taunt him all the way back to his room, as he burrows underneath his covers, trailing behind him like a vengeful ghost.

~*~

The bathroom is still and quiet, and Grima spins the blade on the counter. It catches the flickering candlelight, flashing as it rotates.

Over his shoulder, in the shadows, he sees Morgan. The memory is as clear as the day it happened - only his memory of Chrom’s death shines brighter than this one. It is as if the joint horror and delight have blended together and etched it into stone.

 

_She is ten, and her smile is undiminished. The broken wall crumbles beneath her and she swings her legs. Her matching cloak is still too large, leaving her fingers hidden beneath the too-long sleeves, but she doesn’t mind. She’s just glad to be with him._

_“Papa,” she says, her delicate voice reaching back through the years to him. “When can we go?”_

_“Soon,” he calls, and goes to sit beside her. She has dark eyes, like him. With a shake, her hands pop out of the heavy sleeves. Purple eyes stare at him from her right hand. Her left hand bears her father’s exalted brand. It hurts his eyes to look at it, now, and he can only stare for a moment before turning away._

_They sit in silence for a few moments._

_“Did it hurt, Papa?”_

_It all hurt, and hurts still. He smiles, and ducks his face into his collar. The brush of fabric twists his red, bloody marks. They are barely scabs, and they throb. “Did what hurt?”_

_She raises her right hand and points a finger to his cheeks. “That,” she whispers, eyes solemn._

_“Yes.”_

_She frowns, and lets the sleeves cover her hands again. Morgan is in shock still, some distant part of him realizes. He’d killed her companions, her protectors, days ago, after almost a month of tracking down his younger daughter. She will have to get used to the violent deaths soon. He expects there will be many more._

_After a few moments, she asks, “Can I match you, Papa?”_

_He blinks, and she takes his hand and traces a clumsy pattern on her cheek._

_She wants to… match him._

_“Of course.” Grima grins, his eyes flooding with red. The power burns through his body, making his vision flicker like a paper being burned, the edges curled and crackling. The point of his finger in her grasp glows with unholy light, and she shuts her eyes against the glow._

_“Be brave, my dear,” Grima whispers, and touches her cheek._

 

Grima stops the slowly spinning knife and picks it up with a trembling hand. His right-hand vambrace sits on the cool marble counter, and he keeps his bared wrist turned up, so he doesn't have to look at his mark.

_She was very brave,_ the voice says. _Braver than we expected._

“Shut up,” he growls, body trembling. The knife shudders in his hand.

_It's a pity we didn't finish it_.

“Shut _up_ ,” he says, a little louder.

The voice laughs, and Grima meets his own gaze in the mirror. There's pain in the pull of the muscles around his eyes, his mouth pinched tight. In some ways, Lucina is easier to deal with. She hates him, and that hurts… but Lucina knows what he is. Morgan doesn't know that he's a monster.

He sets the blade against the skin and draws it across.

It's not the right kind of blade for this, and the jagged edges catch. There's a sharp sting, and he gasps as it floods his body, the crisp awareness sending his thoughts spiralling away.

But then the sensation drifts off, fades away, and he’s left with blissful silence. Blood drips into the sink, crimson against the white marble. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. No more voices, no more memories - just the sensation of floating, and in the distance, something akin to absolution. There's no forgiveness for him, he knows, but in that moment he doesn’t really care that he lies to himself.

Grima slumps slowly against the cool marble, alone in the blissfulness of his empty mind. He's never done this before, doesn't know if he did it right, but in this moment right and wrong don't matter. All that matters is that everything is calm and still inside of him, and he's in control of this.

The blood slowly dripping from his arm reminds him of tears, and Grima smiles.

~*~

“Wake up,” Robin says. His voice echoes in Grima’s mind, disturbing the emptiness he’s built up around him. “I want to talk with you.”

Grima opens his eyes and blinks up at Robin, who is standing over the bed, arms folded over his bump. Grima wasn't sleeping, but he lets Robin think he was. It’s late, nearly sundown - he barely remembers hearing the servant come back with more food, but he didn't go out to greet him.

“Morgan is very upset,” Robin says.

Grima tries not to let Robin’s words affect him. Morgan is better without him, and he’d made a mistake going down to that courtyard. She will get over this, and hopefully forget all about him soon enough.

Robin stands still for a few moments, obviously waiting for a response, a reaction. Grima stares back listlessly.

Finally Robin says, “You can't tell me you don't care that your daughter cried for ten minutes, upset that her father won’t even hug her.”

That one stings, like Robin meant it to. Grima turns his face into the pillows, and the movement sends a dull ache through his forearm. He's almost forgotten about the cut he’d given himself, tucked away beneath his vambrace. For a moment, he wonders if anyone would care or be surprised to see that he’d done that, after the scars on his face. But for some reason, he thinks that Robin would care, and he’s not ready for that.

“The servant told me you haven't eaten anything all day,” Robin continues. “He also said you were asking after Frederick this morning.”

Grima’s body stiffens at the mention of the alpha, against his will. His fingers dig into the underside of the pillow. He isn’t expecting this line of questioning. In a way, Morgan’s disappointment is because of Frederick. If the alpha hadn’t been avoiding Grima all day, he wouldn’t have roamed beyond his quarters.

_I am already alone_ , he'd told Frederick, but he hadn’t really been. Frederick had been with him, dampening the growth of those rotting things decaying his mind.

“Is this about Frederick?” Robin muses, sounding surprised.

“It is not,” Grima snarls, muffled, into the pillow. He can’t just lie here in peace, apparently, and Robin isn't going to go away. He just wants to be left alone, for Robin to stop prodding into things that hurt. Grima lifts his head and casts a glare at his other version. Robin doesn’t flinch. “I don't care who you put in here to babysit me.”

“Except you do.” Robin looks pleased that Grima responded. He continues quickly, cutting off Grima's response, “I think you do care about Frederick, and about Morgan.”

Grima closes his mouth. Is there any point in denying it? Robin will think what he wants. Grima gave it away almost willingly, showed them all that he actually cared about Frederick, and now they will take that away too. _They won’t defeat us that easily_ , the voice decrees. _We don't need them. We don't need Frederick, or our ungrateful daughters._ That thought is uncomfortable.

Grima shifts on the bed, and finally sits up. “What do you want? If you're here to hurt me, it won't work.”

Robin unfolds his arms and sits on the bed, giving Grima his most earnest look. “I want to help you.”

Grima scoffs and rolls his eyes. “To humiliate me, more like.”

Robin draws in a breath, belly expanding, and exhales it slowly. Grima hopes for an angry retort, but Robin just rubs at his stomach. The silence lingers on and Grima is forced to break it.

“I didn't mean to upset Morgan,” Grima says, eyes staring through Robin. “I was just…” Trying to get away. His hand tightens into a fist.

Robin leans in when Grima trails off.

“...Just what?”

If Robin is expecting a heart-to-heart he is sorely mistaken. Grima hardens his eyes and glares. 

“Leave me alone,” he snaps. “You are never going to change me, so take your pity somewhere else. I wish I’d killed you when I tried to take back our power. I _hate_ you.”

Suddenly, Grima wishes his arm was bare, so that Robin could see it. Robin would feel badly about it, thinking it his fault, worrying that he pushed Grima too hard, wishing that he would just let help... Robin’s reaction would satisfy a deep part of him, but baring it would take too much time. He’d bound it fast and tight to keep from leaking blood in the bed. So he just sits there, meeting Robin’s gaze.

Robin narrows his eyes and scoots across the bed, toward him. He’s remarkably quick for someone so pregnant. He looks angry, now, and Grima wonders if he’s actually incited him to an emotion other than pity.

“I know what you put Morgan through,” Robin says, eyes flashing. “I saw it, right after we found her. I know you sent that memory to me.” In an instant, Robin is beside him, hands gripping him tight. This is it - Robin is finally going to kill him like he should have done months ago.

_Fight him!_ the voice demands, but Grima doesn’t listen. He relaxes, unresisting, welcoming it.

When he closes his eyes, he almost sees Chrom waiting for him, holding out his hand. _It’s over now_ , his alpha says, with that soft, tender expression that is just for him. The image is as powerful as it is false - he’s not going to join Chrom when his days finally end, but the thought of it is enough.

“I know how much you hated marking her like that… Come here,” Robin whispers, and leans Grima’s head into the crook of his neck.

Grima freezes, realizing that he’s been tricked a moment too late. He pushes against Robin, resisting the comfort in his hug and his voice. Grima thinks about biting him, not in the way that mates do, but just because he can’t _stand_ this better version of himself, trying to understand him. He wants to strike out at everything that hurts him. But then he sucks in a breath, and Robin’s omega aura pierces the cloud around his mind.

The tension in his muscles fades and he slackens against Robin, hating himself for this reaction. His emotions dampen like someone throwing a wet blanket over a fire, and he realizes this is what an omega should be. Calm, peaceful, supportive... But he’s not good at this, not anymore. Too many years of too much dominance, of listening to that voice in his mind, that he could never act truly omega toward anyone else ever again.

Robin rests a hand on Grima’s hair, as he would a child seeking comfort in her father’s arms.

“I hate you,” Grima growls, softly, even as he reaches up and clings to Robin’s elbow. His eyes tingle with the build-up of tears but he doesn’t let them fall.

“No, you don’t,” Robin whispers back. “Just relax.”

He does, for a change. There’s something in the way Robin says it, that slightly commanding air, that lets Grima slip into it, through his own defenses, and allow Robin to take care of him. It’s so _weak_ , but he needs this. It's been a long time since he let anyone take care of him. Grima closes his eyes and burrows his face into Robin's neck, absorbing that scent, letting it wash over him.

He'll never be able to get rid of Robin now, he thinks, but maybe... that won't be so bad.

~*~

It is only when he awakens the next morning, alone, that he realizes he forgot to ask Robin where Frederick was, and when he might be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure exactly what Grima was going to do with that knife from Chapter 1. I had the original thought that he was going to attempt to kill himself with it, but then after uncovering everything he did to Morgan, I thought he would try another avenue instead. (Also, I realized that the voice in his mind (the remnants of the god Grima within him) wouldn’t actually let him kill himself.) A special thank you to my friend who helped me with how Grima would go about cutting himself. 
> 
> I’m now projecting that this fic will have four chapters, and I’ve got the next one roughed out. I’m expecting to put it out in a couple of weeks. If you’re an AO3 member you can set up alerts via Subscriptions, to let you know when the next chapter is out. 
> 
> The next chapter should have more alpha/omega interactions in it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Frederick is back on the third morning, throwing open the curtains and letting the sunlight in, as if everything is fine. Grima doesn’t acknowledge him other than with a grumble, but he is secretly glad of it. Over the time apart, Grima has become increasingly aware that he’s grown too fond of Frederick. It is a weakness that will be exploited, so he ignores the knight for the better part of the afternoon. He can feel the alpha’s presence in the other room like a buzzing echo in his brain, keeping his most desperate thoughts away.

Finally, when it is near suppertime, Grima sits on the arm of the couch and regards Frederick steadily.

The knight doesn’t look up, supposedly engrossed in his reading. He balances his cheek against two fingers and his thumb, eyes moving along the page. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his shoulders aren’t as tight and strong as usual. His other fingers caress the binding in small little motions.

“Where have you been?” Grima asks.

The alpha looks up from the thick book reluctantly. “Do you really care?”

“Frederick,” Grima starts, about to launch into an angry diatribe, but there’s something wrong with his throat because it’s unexpectedly tight. He clears his throat, and the corners of Frederick’s mouth tilt upward slightly.

He’s smiling.

Grima stares at him for a moment, eyes wide with shock. He hasn’t seen that smile in years, and he etches the image into his mind.

Then Frederick turns back to his book.

He knows, Grima realizes. Frederick now knows, from Grima’s own body language, that he was aware of his absence, and _missed_ him. Grima suddenly feels sick, and looks down at his hands. There’s been too much awareness in Frederick’s eyes, of late. Especially after that dinner when Grima stole the knife. Grima isn’t sure what to do with this information, though.

“I took some time off,” Frederick says, interrupting his thoughts.

“You never get sick.”

“I didn’t say I was sick.”

Grima hops off the edge of the couch, curiosity burning in his veins. He's going to make Grima ferret it out himself.

Frederick puts his bookmark between the pages and gently closes it, then leans back into his armchair. He watches Grima come closer through tired eyes.

A scent drifts towards Grima, and he stops. Unwillingly, he breathes it in. Smoke and the crisp scent of linen, and under all of that is a heightened alpha smell, so strong he nearly tastes it on the back of his tongue.

Grima takes a few steps back, hands clenched into fists. “You were in _rut_ ,” he gasps.

Frederick gives a little nod, studying his reaction.

Grima stands up taller, even though his cursed omega body is trembling. Having identified the scent and the cause of Frederick’s absence doesn’t make him feel any better. Being reminded of Frederick’s rut reminds him of his own cycle, and that is not something he wants to think about.

If there is one thing Grima is afraid of, it is of being forced to endure another heat alone. He stays far away from any mention of what he now is, determined to hold himself above his nature. But his omega betrays him, desiring the warmth and excitement of an alpha rut. He’d been through many of Chrom’s, a lifetime ago. There’s no data to prove that an alpha rut can cause an omega heat, but Grima recalls with painful fondness how amorous he would get during Chrom's time.

Grima carefully sets aside thoughts of Frederick in rut, and the resulting questions. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not with Frederick.

“It hasn’t been much fun, taunting the servants,” he says. That is as close to admitting he’s missed Frederick as he will ever come, Grima thinks.

Frederick’s expressive eyebrows come down over his eyes. “They are afraid of you. I am not.”

Grima stalks closer to the alpha, standing over him, refusing to breathe in that delicious smell. Back to familiar ground. “Just because I have been muzzled doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous.”

Frederick shakes his head, looks at him with those piercing eyes. “I didn’t say you weren’t dangerous. I said I am not afraid of you.”

Grima draws in a breath to retort, and his vision fuzzes. That damnable alpha scent floods him, weakening his muscles, and for a moment he thinks he might fall to his knees before Frederick.

_Unacceptable_. He locks his legs, and growls deep in the back of his throat.

“Then you are an idiot,” he snaps, storming off and slamming the door to his bedroom.

Grima leans back against the door, breathing hard as if to expel the scents. He imagines Frederick shrugging and turning back to his book. The knight didn’t let Grima know he would be gone - it’s obvious he doesn’t care about Grima.

He jumps when a knock resonates against his spine, between his shoulder blades.

“Robin,” Frederick says through the door.

That name, those two little syllables hit him like a fist to the gut. He stops breathing, stops thinking. Everything pauses as he unwillingly returns to a time when he was loved by his closest friends and companions - by Chrom, and by their children.

It has been a long time since anyone called him that.

“That’s not my name!” He spins and punches the door, twice. If Frederick were standing before him, he would have struck at him. Shocked pain shoots up his right arm, and he clutches his hand to his stomach, curling around it.

Someone is panting nearby, the labored breath distracting. It takes a few seconds to realize it’s his own breathing. Immediately he closes his mouth, calming himself with an effort.

Is Frederick going to leave? _Let him go_ , the voice says. Grima presses his forehead to the door, listening to the silence.

Frederick eventually sighs. “I'm going back to my reading. If you want to talk like civilized humans, I'll be sitting here.”

Grima bristles, but doesn't immediately open the door. Nor does he retort something, for his mouth is dry.

He thinks he liked Frederick better when he didn't pay attention to Grima. There's an expectation lingering between them… that Grima will come out and be calm and rational. That he will behave like _Robin_. This is not something he can go along with. That person that Frederick thinks still lingers inside of Grima is dead and gone, the ghost long-faded.

With his back to the door, Grima sinks down to the smooth floor.

~*~

Grima’s hand throbs and the knuckles start to swell, a constant reminder that he is no longer a god. With his godhead upon him, things like this didn’t even register, but now it is a constant bother. It reminds him, whether he likes it or not, that his body is that of an omega. Weak, needy, mortal.

He stays in the bathroom for a time, picking at the scabs that reach across his wrist. The knife is in his coat pocket, which is out in the bedroom. Grima takes deep calming breaths, away from enticing, nauseating alpha scents, and watches as the sunlight shining through the window moves along the wall.

As the sunlight begins to fade, Frederick knocks at the door. “Supper is here. Please come out.” His words say, _truce_ , clearer than any tattered white flag strung up on a battlefield.

Grima thinks about not joining him, but eventually he straps on the vambrace and slips out into the main room. He is _not_ obeying that alpha command, he promises himself.

Frederick is seated at the table across the room, eating, his back toward Grima. The faint sound of utensils against china reaches back to Grima, and he pads forward. Without his cloak, he feels strangely exposed, but he doesn't retreat to his bedroom for such a crutch. He can face Frederick without it.

_Kill him_ , the voice suggests, but it lacks that pungency it usually commands.

Grima gives Frederick a wide berth, trailing his left hand along the top rail of his own chair before slipping into it. His fingers ache when he picks up his fork, but he tries his best to ignore both the pain, and Frederick.

He eats, not tasting anything, lost in dark memories. The words Frederick spoke to him swirl around him.

He is not Robin, and he cannot fathom why Frederick would call him that. It reminds him of Robin, the real Robin, pregnant with the Exalt’s second child.

Grima sets his fork down and glares at Frederick, wishing for him to say something, anything, to bring them back to the point before Frederick mentioned his rut, before Frederick disappeared without telling Grima what was happening.

Maybe, even to a time when Grima didn't care about Frederick’s presence.

Frederick reaches across the table to take Grima’s red knuckles in hand. His fingers are soft and warm, and surprising.

Grima snatches his hand back.

“Don't touch me,” he snaps, and withdraws his hand to his lap, where Frederick can't see it. And then, because he needs to strike out, to maintain himself, he says, “My name is not Robin.”

“I am not going to call you Grima,” Frederick says, matter-of-factly, leaving his hand stretched out across the table.

Grima bares his teeth at Frederick, and is rewarded with a level stare, unamused and unafraid.

_Wipe that look off his face_ , the voice commands, and Grima wants to. _Remind him of who we still are._

Grima scoops up the metal fork. His chair scrapes along the floor as he shoves it back and leans over the table. He places the sharp tines against Frederick’s hand, and meets the alpha’s gaze. Frederick remains seated, but Robin feels the alpha energy rise up within Frederick’s eyes, dancing between them.

Just as Grima is about to dig the fork in, Frederick speaks a single word.

“Stop.”

Grima trembles, his whole body tensing. He wants to do it, to prove to Frederick and Robin and himself that he's not gone soft. That he is strong and unbroken by their mix of agonizing kindness and mockery. He strains, ready to push in - but he can't. He's held taut, stretched between conflicting desires, longing to hurt Frederick but also wanting to _obey_ him like a good little omega.

A soft painful moan echoes between them. It isn't from Frederick, he realizes, and then stops thinking.

Frederick gently peels his fingers from the fork, and it clatters to the table.

Grima feels as if everything that made him himself has been stripped away, all at once, ripped off of him, leaving him defenseless and raw and open, bared to Frederick’s alpha gaze.

_I hate you_ , he hears his daughter say to him, each word like a nail pounded into his heart. And Frederick is still holding his hand, when he should have let go in disgust.

Grima closes his eyes, breathing harsh and uneven, but most of his focus is on how warm and comforting Frederick’s hand feels against his skin.

“I hate you,” he whispers.

“No, you don't.” Frederick’s voice is soft. “Not anymore.”

 ~*~

Grima buries his hands in the pockets of his cloak. The knife pricks at his fingertips, but he leaves it hidden as he walks swiftly through the corridors. Frederick ghosts behind him, and Grima convinces himself that Frederick is following him because he's been ordered to.

After the fork incident, Grima had retreated to his room, and Frederick left him to it.

Defeat isn’t something that Grima accepts easily. He’d had years of confident victories as he brought the world to the brink of ruin, and only a few minor setbacks. But these five months have beaten into him the horrid fact that he _lost_ , that these Naga worshippers defeated him. All that remains of his dignity is what he gathers around himself, what he fights for with tooth and nail. The fact that he couldn’t stab Frederick is a defeat, and it burns at him almost as much as his biggest defeat, the day he'd lost his immortality to the Exalt’s alpha.

Submitting to an alpha - admitting defeat and allowing another to dominate him - isn’t something he ever wants to do again, and what Frederick did to him, with one word and a warm touch, came perilously close to that. If Frederick had asked him to kneel in that moment, he would have, like an obedient, whipped dog. Grima grits his teeth, humiliation burning him.

Thankfully, Frederick hadn’t realized it, hadn’t pressed his advantage. He has more of a reason to hate Grima than everyone else, forced to deal with him every day. He would have enjoyed forcing Grima to submit to him.

The door looms before him before he's ready for it. It is a familiar door, one that he'd opened numerous times in the far distant past. Pushed on by this urgency strangling his throat from the inside, he raises his swollen knuckles and knocks on the door. It hurts, but he knocks harder.

“One moment,” he hears, muffled. It is actually three or four moments - enough time for Grima to wonder why he'd come here instead of remaining in his bedroom. He lets loose a soft growl and turns away.

The door opens.

“Wait,” Robin calls, and Grima stops. His hands, in his pockets, are tightened into fists, one hand throbbing with the pressure.

Grima looks over his shoulder and meets Robin’s curious eyes. Grima purposefully ignores Frederick, but he sees Robin shoot a questioning glance to the alpha standing behind them.

Things are building up tight in Grima’s throat, words and questions and emotions, all simultaneously clamoring to get out and to be stuffed back inside. He’s about to run away and disappear back into his room, when Robin takes the decision from him.

With a hesitant smile, Robin takes a few steps toward Grima and holds out his hand, palm-up.

_This is a bad idea_ , he thinks, but he still takes Robin’s hand and allows Robin to draw him inside.

As the door closes, Grima is aware that this is very unfamiliar ground. Grima has never sought Robin out before, and now that he has, he doesn’t know what to say or do. To his joint relief and consternation, Robin guides him into the middle of the room, between a couch and a plush armchair.

“I was just sitting down for some tea,” Robin says, and turns to the tea kettle.

The layout feels all off. These are his old rooms, from his old life - when he had been the Royal Consort. These rooms hold some strange nostalgia for him, but they also feel completely different.

Robin pours a teacup and puts in a single sugar cube, and then holds it out.

Grima stares at the fine china, eyes strangely watering. “Why am I still alive?” he demands. This isn’t what he wanted to speak to Robin about, but he can’t seem to give voice to anything else.

Robin continues to hold out the cup, and Grima grudgingly takes it. With a sigh, Robin sinks into the couch. “I don’t understand the question.”

Grima looks down at the teacup, and contemplates throwing it across the room. “I think you do. Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance, to defeat me completely? I was vulnerable, and…” he trails off, gritting his teeth at the memories that threaten to come flooding back. “You could have ended it all.”

“Because Chrom saw a way out.” Grima winces at the casual mention of his name, but Robin continues, oblivious, “A way where you didn't have to die.”

“But _why_?” Grima asks again. “Why did you want to save me?” What was it that the Exalt saw, in Grima, that had stayed his hand, made him move in for the neck instead of the sword?

Robin pats the couch beside him. “Please, join me.”

It is not a command, not in the way that Frederick’s “Stop” had been. Still, Grima finds himself sinking onto the couch beside Robin, leaving a space between them. The teacup clatters against the saucer as he sets it onto the short table before them.

Robin meets his gaze with honest integrity. “Chrom and I had an argument the night before we came to fight you. I was willing to sacrifice myself, to ensure that you could no longer torment the lands ever again… but he convinced me to hold off, to protect the child inside of me.” Robin’s hand went to his stomach, rubbing protectively. “This was something we discussed, at length. I gave him permission to try…” He looks away. “To try and mate with you, if it would reactivate your bond.”

“You allowed him…” Grima wants to get angry, and his hands tighten into fists, but there's something in his eyes, burning in his throat. “You let him… _mate me_?”

He tries not to remember it, but glimmers sneak through. A lingering hand on Grima’s hip, the sound of his own voice in supplication, the hot kiss on his neck. He trembles, because his omega remembers it through a different lens, colored with passion and desire. Part of Grima had been willing to mate with the Exalt again, and it sickens him still to think upon it.

Some of his disgust must be on his face, for Robin leans forward and pats his hand. “It wasn't meant to harm you. We didn't know you would go into heat immediately after…”

Grima’s face burns, and he stands up and starts pacing. Anything to keep from seeing that pity in Robin's eyes. He flexes his right hand, pressing the hard vambrace against his healing forearm. If what Robin says is true, then Robin and the Exalt shared in the decision to mate with Grima. They are both to blame for Grima’s fall.

Robin rocks up to his feet, ungainly in his pregnancy, and meets Grima’s pacing. He takes Grima’s hands. There’s some emotion in Robin’s eyes, a conflict.

Grima unwillingly thinks about how the tables would be turned if it was _he_ in Robin’s position, allowing his mate to do such a thing. It makes Grima feel a growing respect for Robin, and an equal amount of shame in himself. He doesn’t know if he could have made that decision.

They are different people, he and Robin - and Frederick would do well to remember that. Robin is self-sacrificing, and Grima is selfish.

Robin continues, his voice soft, as if speaking like this will make it less painful. “I didn’t want him to, but we decided he should try it. And it worked. He brought _you_ back, even if it didn’t reconnect the bond.”

“Yes, but _why_?” Grima says, and grips Robin’s hands tight. “ _Why_ didn’t you let me die?”

Robin’s eyes widen with sudden understanding. “Because, I -- oh!” His face goes ashen, and his hands, still holding tight to Grima’s, go to his stomach. Grima feels the contraction against his still-red knuckles, squeezing Robin’s body tight. And because he’s standing close to Robin, he shares in Robin’s momentary panic, the awareness that something could be very wrong.

Grima moves instinctively, even though he longs to know the answer Robin was about to share. He slips one hand free, and wraps that arm around Robin, supporting his weight. Robin winces, and a groan escapes him.

What Grima knows, in that moment, is that he no longer wants to see Robin harmed.

“Frederick!” he calls, urgency in his tone, and holds Robin close to him.

Robin leans in and draws in a deep breath, and his body relaxes somewhat. Grima freezes - is Robin _scenting_ him?

That sudden peaceful omega scent curling around them... is coming from Grima. _He_ is calming Robin.

His mind goes darkly numb, his body paralyzed, and he just holds onto Robin. Even the voice is silent, and it almost feels as if something has rotated within him, a gear that was turning the wrong way suddenly realigning. This feels… right, and he doesn’t question it.

Robin forehead is clammy against Grima’s neck, resting on his shoulder. He’s no longer panicked, though, and that is because of Grima. Something passes between them, in the heavy flicker of Robin’s eyes turned briefly toward Grima - the understanding of two omegas who have borne children, perhaps.

The moment is shattered when Frederick bursts through the door. The alpha comes toward them, and Grima is expecting him to push him away from Robin. He straightens his back and stands a little taller, still holding firmly to Robin. Grima’s relaxing omega scent fades away partially, distracted by Frederick’s swift approach.

But Frederick doesn’t separate them. Instead, he comes close and wraps an arm around Robin’s waist. That hand feels strangely warm against Grima’s body, even through several layers of clothing.

Together, they lower Robin to the couch.

Robin lets out a pained groan, and grips Grima tighter, head still tucked into his neck. Robin’s other arm is snaked around Grima, beneath the cloak, digging painfully into his side, but he finds he doesn’t mind it.

“Robin?” Frederick says.

“The baby,” Robin gasps. “Tell Chrom…”

Frederick looks at Grima for a moment, assessing him. Grima stares back, a hand curled around Robin’s shoulder now that he doesn’t need it to hold Robin upright. He’s gotten caught up in this somehow, but he can’t leave Robin, not when he’s like this. It might just be his cursed omega body, but he feels needed in this moment.

The alpha nods, seeing something within Grima that pleases him. “Stay with him. I’m going to get Chrom.”

~*~

After Frederick leaves, Grima finds himself relaxing back into that strange omega calm. He lets Robin grip his hand too tight as another contraction hits him. His Morgan came a few weeks early, and if not for Lissa’s quick thinking, he would have given birth in the stables.

Grima doesn’t share any of those experiences with Robin, though. He closes his eyes and lets Robin grab onto him, and just focuses on soothing away the worst of his discomfort. Being here with Robin just feels… right. Grima wasn’t certain if he could ever feel normal in his mortal skin again, but here is proof, of a sort.

It comes as a shock when he smells that familiar alpha scent. Protective, loving, a curious mix of aggression and support. He thinks it's a dream, for a moment. And then Grima looks up into those blue eyes. His breath catches, and he expels it all out out in a rush.

“Robin,” Chrom whispers, and reaches out, for his cheek. But then he touches the real Robin’s hair, and Robin loosens his arms from around Grima. And Grima remembers the violent end of his own mate. He’s glad he stopped breathing, then, because it keeps him from letting out the horrible noise that is building up inside.

Grima stands up and backs away. For the moment, nobody is watching him. Nobody sees how torn he feels, simply from smelling Chr - the Exalt. That is not his Chrom, not any longer. His nails snag on the scars on his cheeks, the ones he’d nearly forgotten about.

_Get away_ , the voice whispers, _Before they turn on us_.

Running away is a very omega thing to do - but when he looks up and sees Frederick watching _him_ with those too-knowing eyebrows drawn low, he doesn’t much care how cowardly it is. He turns toward the door, turning away from this delusion he’d let himself see, even for the briefest of moments. He doesn't belong here.

He shoves the door open and takes off down the hall, his feet pounding out a staccato beat against the marble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more of a transitional chapter, I think... where Grima is starting to realize some things about himself and the others around him. I'm a little scared for him, because I don't think the next chapter is going to go well. I've given up predicting where this story is going to go, or how big it's going to be. Grima is very much in charge, at least emotionally, and he has been dragging me all around while I've been wrapping up this chapter. 
> 
> I've got an original fiction project that I'm going to be working on until mid-December, but I'm hoping to post another chapter of this story before the end of November. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this and sticking with my infrequent updates, and please let me know your thoughts! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Grima sits with ankles crossed beneath him on the cold stone bannister, looking out over the darkened gardens, lit with soft moonlight. His breath steams before him in the still night.

The events of the past few hours are changing him, leaving him reeling emotionally.

First on his mind is the puzzle that is Frederick - or, more correctly, his reaction to Frederick. He should be fuming against him. Part of Grima certainly wants to get upset over how he'd stopped him with a single word and the power of his gaze. But if Grima is being truthful to himself, there's a part of him that let Frederick do it to him - his omega. And while he wants to hate that part, it also makes him feel needed… as if he were doing something right.

He has never been one to crave approval. Even as Chrom's consort, all those years ago, he'd done his work without showing off. He felt pride in himself, and that had been good enough.

But the feeling as Robin clung to him, however briefly… Grima can scarcely believe that _he_ was helping Robin, that he found a sense of peace doing it. He can’t even convince himself that it was because of Robin’s pregnant-omega scent. It had been instinctive. It had felt good to take care of Robin, in such a completely meaningless way. But it had meant something to Robin, who clung to him until the moment his mate had shown up.

And it had felt good to Grima. Better than anything Grima has felt since his own Chrom’s death.

He rubs at his stomach, remembering how wonderful it felt to hold his children in his arms. For a fleeting moment, he can almost feel them again: the toddling Lucina, asleep in the crook of Chrom’s arm, and the newborn Morgan in his own arms. And Chrom, snoring with his head tilted back against Grima’s shoulder, more exhausted than Grima had been, looking after a kingdom and his daughters and his omega, who had been through a very rough birth.

How can Grima hate something that makes him feel like that? Being omega was part of almost all of his happiest moments, and he wants to feel that happiness again.

But he also wonders if he should be allowed to feel it. He is Grima, after all. He uncrosses his legs and leans out over the railing, staring down into the darkness, looking for something.

“Please, come down from there,” Frederick says from behind him.

Grima starts, hands gripping the stone. He hadn’t sensed Frederick’s approach. The alpha’s presence clashes for a moment with the memory of his sleeping family, turning it painful. Frederick reminds him that he will never be allowed that family again. His mate is dead and gone. Lucina burns with hatred toward him, and Morgan…

Frederick reminds him of how much he hurt Morgan, too.

Grima looks over his shoulder, but doesn’t see the alpha. Curious despite himself, he swings his legs back over the railing and crosses the short balcony.

Frederick speaks when Grima appears in the doorway, sounding exhausted but slightly pleased. “Robin is going into labor. It’s a good thing you were there, I believe.”

Frederick’s bowtie is coming loose, strings hanging limp on his exposed collarbones as the shirt gaps ever so slightly.

With a sigh, Frederick takes a seat at the foot of the bed, hand pressing against the quilts.

Grima stands still, taking this in.

The bed is his sanctuary. Yes, Frederick occasionally pulls the blankets off, opens up the shades and lets the sunlight in, but he’s never disturbed it in this very physical, concrete way. It feels… too intimate, too assuming.

Frederick is muddling the lines of everything today, washing all the colors and emotions together within Grima’s head, and for some reason this one small thing is too much. Grima’s hands tighten into fists, and his right-hand knuckles ache from where he struck the door.

“Maribelle says it should be an easy birth. Robin will be fine.” Frederick continues to speak, impervious to all the things he’s done to Grima tonight. He closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “What you did for Robin was very…”

“Unlike me?” Grima provides acerbically into the pause.

“It was very kind,” Frederick says deliberately, eyes focusing on Grima.

Grima’s forearm aches and itches beneath his one vambrace, and he looks away. He doesn’t want to hear Frederick say that. He will always come up lacking when compared to Robin, who is good and noble and _kind_. They are separated by more than one death, however cataclysmic it was. Grima is flawed like a glass with a deep fundamental crack in it, barely able to function.

The Exalt should have just killed him and put him out of his misery.

Grima lets out an agonized growl. One hand claws absently at his face, but he’s focused inward again, struggling with the darker parts of himself. In spite of everything, he wants to be called _kind_ , and all the other things that Robin is, and Grima can never be again.

Frederick’s warm hand wraps around his wrist, pulling it away from his cheek.

Grima jerks back, trying to disengage Frederick, but only succeeds in drawing him closer. Alpha scent burns through him, sending twinned, opposite signals to his brain, an acute push-pull.

“What’s wrong?” Frederick whispers, almost tenderly. His hand slips away, but he does not.

Grima lets out a little gasp, and it turns into a chuckle. He can’t possibly answer Frederick. It is, quite simply, everything. For a moment, he wonders if this is it, and he’s losing his mind under the pressure.

But Frederick waits patiently, and Grima stops laughing.

He meets Frederick’s eyes with something other than defiance, and Frederick looks back. For a moment, Grima wants to lean into Frederick, wants to allow that alpha scent and power to curl around him. He longs to set aside his aggression and hatred, to allow Frederick to guide him. His heart pounds in his chest, in his head, and he remembers what it felt like to be supported and comforted by his mate, all those years ago. It aches.

“I…” he starts, and then looks down. Frederick is patient, but Grima can’t let him in that last bit. He diverts back to safer ground, and his next words are cold and conversational. “Do you know why you were alone when I killed you?”

Frederick bristles, and his voice growls. “If you’re going to mock me, I will leave.”

Grima meets his gaze for a moment - _I am not mocking you_ \- and then looks down at the space of skin above Frederick’s slightly open collar. “It’s because I left you for last.”

The tendons in Frederick’s neck rise beneath the skin as he breathes in and out, in and out, but he stays before Grima.

He doesn’t leave.

The pulse of relief is foreign. Grima hasn’t relied on anyone else in years. There is pain when he lets other people in. But something about this night has left him… changed, and he’s not certain if he wants to go back, or if he can.

His palms hurt, and he knows he’s digging sharp nails into them. He squeezes tighter. He’d stripped off one vambrace, but the other is still on, still tight, concealing some of his marks.

Warmth surprises him, blooming from his hands. Frederick is too close, stilling the tension, spreading his suddenly relaxed fingers. Grima forgets how to breathe, but somehow Frederick’s alpha scent sneaks in anyway, seeping into his skin.

“Why did you leave me for last?” Frederick finally asks. His voice is soft, inviting. His large thumb caresses Grima’s sore knuckles, not aware of the purple mark hidden beneath the vambrace, and the red half-healed slice further up, across his wrist. But there are scars, deeper than his skin, that Frederick seems to be brushing against. It feels good, in a bruised sort of way.

Grima trembles, and looks up into those dark, questioning eyes. He draws in a hesitant breath. A part of him bristles against the scent of clean, fresh things, the warm curl of smoke like a feather against his core - things that are quintessentially Frederick. But another part - his omega - craves it.

Frederick’s pulse is beating fast and hard just above his collar. He gives a gentle pull, and Grima allows it, closing some of that gap between them, head angling up into Frederick’s neck, where his pulse throbs. It’s still, within Grima’s mind, still and silent and - hopeful.

And then Frederick speaks, breath shifting the hairs at his temple. “...Robin?”

It feels as if a bucket of icy water is being dumped on Grima’s head.

“Don’t call me that,” Grima snarls, and wrenches his hands free. He backs away, moving through the open balcony door, the cloying scent following him. He glares back at the alpha and steps up onto the railing, daring the alpha to protest, to come after him.

Frederick doesn’t speak. He just watches Grima with heavy condemning eyebrows, his mouth pressed into a line, fury in the rigidity of his shoulders. For a moment, Grima hopes - thinks - he will come after him. Grima turns and walks the flat stone of the railing, away from Frederick’s enticing scent, half-expecting strong alpha hands to take him away from the edge.

When he walks back to the door, Frederick is gone.

It hurts, but _that_ is what he expected.

~*~

Grima wakes up near noon, exhausted, and drags himself out into the sitting room. The night had been long and lonely, and that was all his own fault. He let Robin in, let himself feel useful for a brief moment, and nearly allowed Frederick to see those pieces of himself that he's fought so hard to keep hidden... and now it feels even worse. He’s reminded of Lissa’s delicate springtime flowers, planted with care a day too early, destroyed by cruel frost.

_I am a monster_ , he reminds himself sternly, fingernails digging into his cheek. There is no happy ending for him. He’d meant it when he told Robin, _You could have ended it all_. It would have been a blessing.

_How weak_ , the voice hisses, displeased, and Grima’s stomach curdles.

Frederick is boiling water for tea at the fireplace. Grima meets his eyes as he passes to the far end of the couch, as far away from Frederick’s armchair as he can get. After a moment’s silence the alpha simply turns back to his task, as if Grima is not worth his attention. When the water is ready Frederick prepares a single cup and sinks into his armchair, steam curling around his face.

Grima pretends he doesn’t feel the slight. It’s just tea. It won’t even taste right anymore.

_Kill him_ , the voice suggests, and Grima fingers the knife in his pocket, but he doesn’t bring it out. He’s aware of a bitter truth - he can’t bear to try it, not now. He doesn’t think he will be able to harm Frederick, and that scares him.

The alpha sips his tea, and sifts through some paperwork, and Grima sits and ignores him. But even in this painful silence, Frederick’s presence is calming. At least he’s here.

When he is done with the tea, Frederick stands. He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for Grima to look at him, but he won’t.

“I will be back around dinnertime,” Frederick says. “Please do not wander while I am gone.”

Another pause. The alpha wants him to look up, to acknowledge him.

Grima musters all his hatred and shoots Frederick a determined glare. The alpha stares back, and Grima growls, fingernails digging into the arm of the couch.

There’s a tension in the room now, between their locked gazes, but it’s broken when Frederick turns away. Even though Frederick moved first, it doesn’t feel like a victory to Grima. It is, at best, an uncomfortable stalemate.

Frederick heaves a disappointed sigh as he walks to the door. The sound runs down Grima’s spine, but he crosses his arms and continues to ignore Frederick, until he is gone.

Grima thinks about disobeying Frederick’s nicely-worded order to stay here, but then he remembers the crestfallen expression on Morgan’s face when he ran away from her magic lesson. _I’ve missed you, Papa… did you see my magic?_ He doesn’t want to experience that again.

Grima slumps around his rooms for a time, but nothing captures his interest, his attention. He feels… desperate, but for no reason that he can explain.

There is something stirring within him, a familiar darkness. Back at the beginning of his godhead, he would get into moods like this. Usually he would slaughter some Ylissean villagers or unwitting Plegian peasants, and his spirits would improve. But he has no convenient conduit for this restlessness. Nobody to kill, nobody to fight.

Nobody.

_I am already alone_.

He eyes the bookshelves distastefully. He’d gathered up books from the library during his first month here, but he’d read them all in his past life, and he can’t stand to even touch them now. The books contain cursed memories he would rather forget.

As he walks past the desk, his hand slips into his pocket. He withdraws the knife and studies his distorted, marked face in the serrated reflection. _I_ … he’d said to Frederick last night, in that heated moment. The beginning of a sentence that had scared him to his core. If he had finished it, what would he have said? _I… don’t want to be alone. I want to be happy. I... want to be_ kind _._

_Pitiful_ , the voice says, and Grima has to agree. His eyes glow with the dull red of dried blood.

He stabs the knife into the desk, the sharp point digging into the soft wood. When Grima releases the knife, it wobbles for a moment. He finds himself very glad he didn’t let those words out, even though part of him aches from Frederick’s cold rejection.

_He would have hurt us_ , the voice soothes, _one way or another._

With Frederick gone, he has an opportunity to regain his coldness and distance - to separate himself from his omega desires. There is pain when he lets other people in, and Frederick just proved that point. Still, Frederick’s voice mocks him even when the alpha is absent - _You’re going to die alone if you keep pushing everyone away._

“Good,” he mutters.

There’s a strong knock at the door, and Grima starts. Who would dare -

“I’m coming in.”

Grima’s eyes open wide as his head snaps up. _The Exalt_. He doesn’t ask permission - he announces himself. Maybe he knows that his presence isn’t welcome. Grima isn’t ready for this, but perhaps he will never be ready to speak with him.

The Exalt steps into the room and closes the door. Grima stands perfectly still, watching him because he can’t bring himself to look away. The man before him looks like his mate, his protector and confidant - but he belongs to another.

The Exalt turns, and seems surprised to find Grima standing beside the desk. No doubt he’s spoken to Frederick to feel out Grima’s temper today. What did Frederick tell him?

He advances cautiously, as someone would approach a skittish colt. Grima realizes they are alone together, for the first time since… His mind blanks, and he skewers the alpha with a contemptuous glare. Grima cannot allow himself to feel anything in his presence.

“Would you come sit down?” the Exalt asks.

Grima stays where he is, silent, grinding his jaw.

“Fine,” the Exalt says, and places a hand on the back of Frederick’s armchair. He remains standing, and studies Grima with penetrating eyes. After a moment, Grima looks away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It is at that point, when he reaches for the comfort of the knife, that he realizes it is still stuck into the wood directly behind him. The Exalt only has to shift a little to the side, and he will see the knife.

A flare of panic shoots through his body, but Grima only straightens his shoulders. If he stays right here, he can keep the knife hidden. “What do you want?” Grima asks.

The Exalt seems surprised, and pauses a moment. “I thought you might like to know that Robin is fine. He gave birth to a little boy with very little complications.” His face softens as he thinks about his mate and their new child.

A boy - Grima had been expecting a replacement for Morgan. Despite himself, he wonders how his younger daughter is taking this news. For a moment, he thinks about asking - but that would be too revealing.

He’s still not sure why the Exalt thought he needed to tell Grima this, personally. Why not just send the information through Frederick, or leave him in the dark?

The Exalt continues, “They’re both sleeping now, and Frederick is watching over them.” His gaze sharpens. “I wanted to thank you for being there with Robin. If he had been alone, nobody would have known he was going into labor for a few hours. You could have just left.” He implies, _I thought you wanted us all to suffer._

Grima shrugs, and looks away. “I couldn’t…” Admitting even this to the Exalt is hard. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“Me too,” the Exalt admits, and there’s something heavy in his voice. “I don’t want to see either of you suffer.”

Grima’s head comes up. He’s pretty sure he’s glaring, but uncertainly. He expects a trap, and can't fathom why the Exalt would say that. He’s bunching Grima with Robin again. Has he forgotten all the terrible things Grima did and would have done? It’s there on Morgan’s scarred face, in Lucina’s hatred, in the heavy look that Grima tosses at him even now. If Grima had won… he wouldn’t have left them alive. He would have relished every death.

“Robin told me what you two were talking about,” the Exalt says.

Grima doesn’t respond, but inside things are turning sharp and jagged, like disturbed shards of glass. He's not ready to have _this_ conversation with the Ylissean alpha.

The Exalt shifts, and rubs at his blue hair, and finally he looks up. If Grima allows himself, he can almost imagine it is _his_ Chrom standing there, broaching some topic that he thinks Grima will dislike. “I was protecting Robin and my kingdom. I didn’t think past that moment, to what it would mean if I… mated you.” He speaks the last two words quietly, as if admitting some great secret.

Unwillingly, Grima recalls the tender way the Exalt caught his body when he collapsed, teeth buried in his neck. It was a lover’s touch, freely given but only partially accepted. Even as Grima begged the Exalt to continue, he fought against their inevitable mating. The Exalt was never his to claim, no matter how much he looked like Grima’s Chrom.

He shivers, and closes his eyes, and the Exalt continues.

“I should have stayed, to help you through your heat--”

“I didn’t need you,” Grima says, bristling. Despite himself, he wonders: what would have happened if the Exalt had joined him in that locked carriage? But he didn’t, and Grima survived those three and a half days of burning torture, of chafing his wrists raw on the metal restraints, unable to even touch himself to relieve the need -

He opens his eyes wide, and steps toward the Exalt. “I survived, without any alpha to help me.” Scarlet blotches cross his vision. Grima is angry, so angry, forced to think about these things he's tried so hard to forget. It's all twisted up inside of him, the pain-love he felt five months ago for the alpha before him, the way he trembled beneath Frederick's touch, the way his body still knew what to do to soothe away Robin's distress. Grima hisses, “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. Especially not _Frederick_.”

The Exalt’s mouth drops open. “Frederick?”

Grima’s eyes blur, but not quick enough to keep from seeing the understanding pass through the Exalt’s eyes. He did _not_ mean to say that. They will certainly use this against him - maybe they will even replace Frederick with another keeper. If Frederick hasn’t already requested another position.

Grima gathers together what is left of his pride, and then snarls, “You should have killed me.” The Exalt's pained expression should feel satisfying, but it hurts, Chrom's ghost lingering behind him in the darkness of his shadow. "Leave me be." He storms into his room, slamming the door with a loud, less-than-satisfying crack.

~*~

It is only after he’s calmed down somewhat that he remembers the knife, buried a half inch into the desk. When he’s certain the Exalt is gone, he creeps back into the main room.

His knife is gone, and only the small slot in the desk remains.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a couple of different versions of the scene between Grima and Chrom, but this one felt the most true to themselves and the awkwardness of their interactions. These two haven't spoken more than five words to each other since the final battle, and Grima has been dreading this meeting forever. Chrom, for his side, is nervous about Grima and wants his forgiveness for mating him and then leaving him to deal with his heat alone, even though he doesn't come out and say it. 
> 
> This was more of a transition chapter, but I hope to have the next one done in a few weeks. (My original fiction project is done, so I'm able to focus on finishing up some of my fanfic projects now.) Thank you very much for reading the latest installment - please let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

Grima stays in his bed for the rest of that day, eating nothing even when Frederick returns with dinner. He is not affected by the loss of the knife as much as he is angered by his own weakness. He hears his own words, echoed back, again and again. _I don't need anyone. Especially not Frederick._ He sees the Exalt’s reaction, the comprehension shooting through blue eyes, over and over. Robin knows, and now the Exalt, too.

And Frederick…

_I hate you._

_No, you don't._ _Not_ _anymore_.

He knows.

It sickens Grima, this blatant non-admission which admits too much, to the point where even interacting with Frederick is difficult. He doesn’t react when the alpha speaks, curled around his aching stomach, withdrawn like a turtle tucked into its shell. Frederick’s words pass through him unregistered. He senses, distantly, the alpha standing over him, reaching a hand toward him, and then withdrawing. Grima doesn't know if he wants Frederick to touch him, or not. But, when he leaves, it is easier to slip into numbness, even as his memories plague him.

Grima stares as the wall is coated with orange sunset, and then twilight, and then finally he sleeps.

~*~

The next morning he pulls himself out of bed, early. His stomach growls, and he trembles with physical illness. There's a burning in his limbs, almost a fever. This mortal, weak body needs sustenance, whether he wants it or not. He can no longer go days without eating, as he used to when he was the god. Some inner preservation drags him along, forcing him into the main room to look for some leftovers or remnants from last night.

There is no food - but there is Frederick.

Grima almost retreats back into his sanctuary, but the stillness of Frederick’s hand, fallen over the armrest, informs him that the knight is asleep.

After yesterday, Grima had been expecting the alpha’s absence, or more of that smoldering non-attention. This delicate allowance, whether intentional or not, invites Grima closer. It’s not the first time Grima has found Frederick asleep in his armchair.

He pads over, watching carefully for signs of wakefulness, breathing shallowly as if that will keep the alpha scent from overwhelming him.

Frederick’s wrist is turned up, blue veins near the surface looking especially vulnerable.

_Hurt him as he’s hurt us_ , the voice whispers. Red fills Grima’s vision for an instant, the memory of Frederick’s death close at hand, but he blinks, and it’s gone. Instead he focuses on the slack curve of the fingers, the invisible pulse, the worn calluses across his palm from years of wielding spear and blade. Grima crouches beside that hand, peeking along the white sleeve to Frederick’s face. His head is tilted down and at an odd, painful angle, eyelashes closed and dark against his skin. A faint snore sneaks out.

Two equal and opposing forces are at work within Grima’s body - one that hates the man so defenseless before him, and one… that doesn't.

He leans in and breathes the alpha scent from Frederick’s wrist, where the blood runs close to the skin. He feels a calm float over him, a desperate kind of relaxation that makes him angry - but then he sways, momentarily dizzy, and his knees go to the carpet, and his slightly open mouth brushes against Frederick’s wrist, tasting his skin. He licks his lips, eyes fluttering closed.

It tastes like Frederick, like alpha, linen and fire and _comfort_ \- and in that moment Grima realizes he wants and needs Frederick _,_ perhaps more than he has ever allowed himself.

When he's nearby, Grima doesn't feel so desperate. And sometimes, when Grima doesn't feel that urge to fight against whatever Frederick says or does, he wants to tell him everything, because it feels like the alpha would listen without judgment.

But Frederick surely despises him, as everyone else does. He's been assigned to Grima for months. He must be sick of him by now. And Grima doesn't deserve to feel happy, to feel good in his own skin, to have as welcoming a confidant as he used to have in Chrom. He is, after all, Grima.

As he thinks this, eyes still closed, there's a brush at his neck, fingers reaching out to caress the ridges of his outstretched throat. Alpha scent curls around him like smoke, inviting him in. He swallows beneath the soft touch, and shifts willingly as the hand moves to cup his jaw. Before Grima quite realizes what is happening, Frederick’s thumb is slipping up his chin and brushing against his bottom lip. His breath comes sharp, excited, even eager, and he lets out a soft noise at the contact. And then those fingers trail up his cheek, to the scars, a delicate coldness where there should have been warmth.

Grima’s eyes fly open, burning with red as awareness returns. He jerks his head out of the alpha’s hand, staring up at Frederick, who has the most knowing, infuriating expression brushing at his sleepy eyes and across his mouth.

Frederick smiles, and Grima does not like it.

Heat rushes to his face, embarrassed and horrified. He’s kneeling before Frederick - he just went willingly to him, like a _cur_ to his master, moaning at his touch.

Grima stands and stalks over to the banked fire, tucking his hands into opposite cloak sleeves so that he doesn’t trace the path those fingers travelled. He glares into the glowing embers. After a few moments, he says, in what he hopes is a haughty, demanding voice, “I am hungry.”

Frederick looks at him - Grima can feel that heated gaze crawling up his spine. But the alpha only says, “I’ll send for breakfast.”

~*~

When the food arrives shortly thereafter, Grima can barely stomach it. His queasiness is back, but he still eats, forcing down bites with trembling hands.

He ignores Frederick, refuses to look at him. But he is intensely aware of the alpha, sensing his attentive stare, the way he reacts to Grima’s sudden movements. The way he watches.

_This cursed body_ , he thinks, and he’s not sure anymore if the voice says it, or if he, himself, feels it. _Cursed weakness - first the Exalt, yesterday, and Frederick today. We should kill them all._ He grinds his teeth on the fork, longing to lash out. He has never been more aware of his omega weakness - No, that’s not true. Grima _has_ been consumed by omega heat, by desire, and he will be again.

And now, with the knife gone...

Grima sneaks a scowl Frederick’s way, and notes that Frederick’s eyes travel away from him… as if he doesn’t want to be caught staring.

The last meal they'd shared, Grima tried to stab him with a fork.

Grima longs to know what Frederick is thinking, but he can't ask, so he takes another bite and chews on it. Chews, also, on the thing he’d just done.

He'd scented Frederick, like a starving child at a window, looking in on a freshly-baked pie.

Having an omega look at him that way… No wonder Frederick smiled.

Grima is flushing again - he feels that warmth in his cheeks.

It's been a long time since he was touched like that - tender and caring. It felt good.

He drops the fork with a clatter, and covers his eyes. Grima doesn't deserve anyone caressing him like that. And Frederick must hate him, anyway.

“Is something wrong?”

Grima laughs, a dark chuckle that probably doesn’t sound sane - he's starting to hate this question from Frederick. “I am,” he says, and laughs some more. He's wrong, and this is all wrong. Sitting here at this table with Frederick, waiting for the questions or the comments to start, longing for anything else to think about other than his own embarrassment…

“Tell me,” Frederick says, softly. Not a command, spoken with none of that alpha presence that Grima can still taste in the back of his mind.

Grima wants to. Only… he can’t. He won’t. He musters all the hate he can possibly contain in his eyes, and looks up. He meets Frederick’s concern, glares until it melts away.

The spark of frustration kindles in Frederick’s eyes, and Grima feels some comfort in it. This, at least, is familiar ground. A battle of wills across the table, an omega who once held the strength of a thousand alphas, against a single determined knight. Grima wants to forget the way Frederick’s fingers danced along his skin, to wipe the smile off of Frederick’s face permanently.

“Why are you still here?” Grima demands.

Frederick’s eyebrows drop. “I don't understand.”

“You've been saddled with me for over five months.” Grima stands, and the chair scrapes back to the wall behind. “Why don't you request a transfer?”

“I don't want a transfer.” The words come out hot, agitated, dangerous, and something within Grima is soothed by them.

But he still demands more. “Why not? Do you get some pleasure out of seeing me laid low? Do you think you can tame me, bring me to heel?”

Frederick sits up straighter, growing annoyed. “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

“Tell me,” Grima says, mocking.

“Do you want me to leave?” Frederick asks, and there's something… hurt in his tone, even as his face goes sharp. “To send in someone else to look after you?”

“No,” Grima says instantly, unthinking.

“Then why are you asking?”

Grima winces, unsure. If Frederick is fishing for compliment or confirmation, he won't get it.

Frederick presses his advantage, and it is only after he’s spoken that Grima realizes what an advantage Frederick truly has over him. “Why are you so interested, if you don't care about me, _Robin_?”

Grima shivers, and his eyes blaze red. “Don’t you _dare_ call--”

“Hush,” Frederick growls, alpha sinking into his tone, and he freezes.

Grima’s words die away unspoken. It feels as if he’s stepped out onto a disintegrating balcony, and Frederick is ordering him to stand still. All he wants to do in this instant is bolt to the bedroom over Frederick’s right shoulder. A small, _weak_ sound curls out of his throat, craving a comfort he doesn’t deserve.

The alpha rises and walks around the table. His pace is deliberate, slow. Something between them grows taut like a spring twisted tight, tighter and tighter, until it might snap. Grima is paralyzed by the look in Frederick’s eye as he stops a foot away from him, almost close enough to touch.

“You do care about me,” Frederick whispers, and it’s not a revelation. He is stating what he thinks is fact. “Just as you care about the others. It’s why you don’t want to see Morgan, why you force everyone away. Seeing her reminds you of what you’ve done, more than any of the others - except for Chrom.” He pauses, and someone is breathing harsh into the silence. In a different tone, Frederick continues, “You’re not the monster you want everyone to see.”

Grima’s knees are trembling, and he wants very badly to look away, but his eyes are locked on Frederick’s.

“I am a monster,” he says, although lacking certainty. “I killed everyone. I killed-”

“Hush,” Frederick says again, and Grima’s teeth click together as he complies. In the next instant, he's furious - How dare Frederick try to control Grima like this, using his alpha strength to force him to be quiet? Grima growls at Frederick, unwilling to let him stop all forms of protest.

“There was a moment when Chrom approached you, on the back of the dragon,” Frederick says over his growl. Grima doesn’t want to remember the event, but thankfully Frederick is providing sufficient distraction. His large hand reaches across the distance between them.

Grima’s breathing is coming fast and hard, and he can’t seem to catch it. Frederick’s fingers move deliberately closer, cupping his chin as they did before, as if they belong there, brushing along his jaw - and downward, this time. Down to the place where a mate mark once sat, long since faded away.

Grima is aware all at once of Frederick’s scent, a blend of smoke, fresh linen, and sweat.

Frederick says, “You could have struck at Chrom… but you hesitated.”

Grima’s eyes flash scarlet, and Frederick’s expression flickers behind reddish streaks. “I did _not_ -”

“HUSH,” Frederick snaps. Grima jerks back so hard his head hits the wall. Frederick steps forward, crowding Grima’s view, voice intense and low. “I saw you hesitate, and I knew then that there was still something of Robin within you. You let Chrom get too close, on purpose. You let him bite you.”

Maybe he’s right, but Grima isn’t going to admit it with that alpha essence oozing along his skin. He grips Frederick’s wrist and prepares to pull that hand away from his neck. Grima draws in a breath to snarl something, but then stops before he lets those probably hurtful words out.

In his mind, he recalls Frederick saying, _You’re going to die alone if you keep pushing everyone away._

The red fades from his eyes. Grima _is_ pushing everyone away, and he is alone. But Frederick… is here. So Grima closes his mouth.

They regard each other, marble and stone, and silence simmers between them. Grima wants to push forward, to move into the space Frederick left between them, but he's held paralyzed by those fingers, so gentle and caring. He feels his mate's long-dead presence in that caress, haunting him.

Grima’s hand slips away, drops to his side, and in turn Frederick relaxes. The alpha’s body loses some of that rigidity, and he comes closer, hand curling around the back of Grima’s neck. It is too close to what Chrom used to do - when he would pull Grima close, forehead to forehead, giving and receiving strength as only mates could.

“Please,” Grima says, hesitantly, with Frederick’s large brown eyes looming ever closer, “Stop touching me.” It’s not his usual aggressive voice that eases out, but something softer.

Frederick’s eyebrows come together, but after a moment, he withdraws, and steps back.

Grima sighs and leans back against the wall, every muscle trembling. The loss of that warm touch is almost too much. He doesn't know what to say to Frederick about those things he sees in him. If he admits to them… it’s as if he's admitting that Robin still exists inside. He's not ready to face the things Frederick said, to face this.

His fingers go to the scars on his cheek, tracing the raised edge.

Can he still be Robin?

_No_ , the voice says, firm and resonant.

“No,” he echoes sadly. If Frederick hears him speak aloud, he doesn’t comment.

Grima watches as Frederick goes to his armchair and reaches into a small pouch tucked beside the short legs. He remains pressed against the wall, clinging to it, and idly eyes the strange shifting triangle between himself, Frederick, and the door to his sanctuary. Before he can make the decision to retreat, Frederick returns.

There’s a shiny object in Frederick’s hands, and Grima doesn't recognize it - isn't expecting it - until Frederick places it on the table and then steps back.

The knife sits beside Grima’s place, catching the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. His knife. The one Chrom took away.

“What is this?” Grima demands, when Frederick just looks at him.

“You tell me,” Frederick responds.

Grima glares, and pushes himself off the wall. “No.”

“I think I know,” Frederick says, “But I want to hear it from you.”

The Exalt spoke with Frederick, Grima knows. He must have relayed their whole conversation. _I don't need anyone. Especially not Frederick._

He grips the table edge, hard, and his knuckles ache distantly. “It was… a failsafe,” he admits, staring down at the knife.

“Against what?”

Grima can’t put it into words. The knife became something more than it had been when he’d swiped it from the table - an act of defiance turned into defense. He recalls the way it bit into his skin, emptying him of everything. Grima touches his forearm, squeezing the vambrace tight beneath the worn gold cuff.

Frederick’s sharp eyes follow the movement, and for an instant Grima wants Frederick to figure it out, to know that Grima is so miserable in this prison he’d opened himself up to that he would willingly harm himself to escape it. But then, in the next instant, a wave of guilt runs through him. He crosses his arms, hiding his secret, burying it deeper.

_Take it up and attack him with it_ , the voice whispers.

Grima turns his face away from Frederick and the knife. He sees the invisible strings attached to this knife, looped around its jagged serrations and the smooth wooden handle. As much as he wants it, he cannot take it.

“Tell me,” Frederick says again, so open and willing to listen that it hurts Grima physically.

Grima thought that the loaded spring between them had loosened when Frederick stepped away, but it didn’t. It’s still wound too tight, and he’s only aware of this as it snaps, and something comes loose within him.

“Stop it!” Grima snarls. He’s warm beneath the cloak, hot with anger and fury and a thousand other emotions bubbling to the surface like a hot spring, becoming words that he doesn’t know how to keep inside any longer. His hands curl into fists. “Stop trying to get me to share. You can’t understand. _None_ of you understand. I should have died. The Exalt should have killed me. I wanted him to kill me. And now I’m shattered, and you show me off as the spoils of war. The great and powerful _god_ reduced to pliant omega...” He pauses, chest heaving, and a trickle of sweat runs down his temple. Perhaps he’s gone a bit too far.

Frederick stands perfectly still, and Grima wonders which of them is more surprised by this outburst.

“I’m sorry, Robin,” Frederick says.

Wrong answer - but Grima knew he was going to say it. It means everything and nothing.

Grima stalks right up to the alpha and stares into his brown eyes. “That is not my name.”

And then he stumbles to his room - all his energy has left him - and closes the door with a calm hand.

When he curls himself under the blankets and allows his limbs to tremble, he sees that compassionate look in Frederick’s eyes running through his mind.

There are tears leaking down his scarred cheeks, and all at once he feels echoingly empty.

~*~

Frederick follows him a short time later. He sits right on the bed beside Grima’s curled-up legs, invading his space, and rests his hand on his hair.

Grima keeps his eyes closed, but tears continue to leak through squeezed lashes. He doesn’t push Frederick’s hand away. He pretends he doesn’t notice Frederick, but whatever is left after that outburst is focused on the knight.

At first the hand just lies there, a floating warmth hovering on top of his head, and then it starts to move. Those long fingers running through his hair are foreign and warm.

Without words Frederick eases those jagged edges, sets that spring back into place. Grima doesn’t know how he does it, or why, and there’s a soft voice whispering in his mind: _Don’t question this._ It almost makes him want to cry even more.

When the tears have stopped, the hand withdraws, and the bed shifts as the weight of Frederick’s presence is removed. His voice is soft, tender - confusing. “Robin asked to speak with you, when you’re feeling up to it. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Grima doesn’t answer. He turns his face into the pillow, closing Frederick out so he doesn’t have to think about what he admitted to him this time.

When Frederick is gone, Grima rolls onto his back, uncurling, stretching, and stares up into the slanting light through the balcony windows.

He can’t explain why Frederick did that - why he comforted him. Nor can he really explain to himself why he feels better from it.

“Can I still be Robin?” he asks hesitantly of the ceiling.

No one answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is continuing to read, and please let me know what you thought! 
> 
> I'm guessing this will have maybe 3 more chapters. The scene where Frederick touches Grima has been around in one form or another since before I started posting this fic, so I'm glad to finally be able to share it with you all. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Robin opens the door one-handed, most of his attention on the small bundle of blankets in his arm. He is dressed in a silk white and blue robe that looks incredibly comfortable, and the baby is asleep, wrapped in matching colors.

“Ah, good. Come in.” Robin looks tired, but there’s a satisfied edge to his smile when he greets them.

Grima hunches in his ragged cloak at the door, and glances back at Frederick without meeting the alpha’s eyes. Embarrassment and the aching pain of a wound that never quite healed right war for dominance within Grima’s chest, making it difficult to breathe. He feels itchy beneath his skin, where no amount of scratching can reach. Thankfully, Frederick has not spoken of any of the things Grima said in that last outburst - but his eyes reflect them all back to him with damnable _pity_.

It is mid-afternoon, and Grima is determined to forget everything that transpired between himself and Frederick. But he can’t keep his own mind from conjuring up the tender touch on his hair, or the way he relaxed in the alpha’s presence. Grima can’t ignore the soft way the alpha speaks to him since his outburst, as if he’s delicate and in need of extra care, like a shattered vase put back together, the glue not yet set.

There's a sharp sudden pain at his cheek. Grima is clawing at the bottom-most scar - his fingers come away bloody, and he quickly folds his hands into his oversized cuffs.

Frederick deliberately leans against the wall outside the door, indicating that he will give them privacy. His eyes watch Grima as he says, “I'll be out here if either of you need me.”

Grima doesn’t know if he should feel insulted or grateful. He hasn’t earned that trust, not really. But he won’t harm Robin or the baby.

_We could,_ the voice says, but there’s no intention backing the statement.

The door shuts behind him, closing Frederick out, closing Grima inside this room he once called his own. It smells of omega and baby, and a familiar ache forces its way up his throat.

“Thank you for coming,” Robin says, and leads him back to the couch. Robin’s belly has already started to shrink. Omega bodies are extremely adaptive, and it won’t take more than a few weeks before he’s lost most of the baby weight. “Please, sit here.”

Grima takes a hesitant seat on the couch, near Robin but not touching him. He stares at the baby in Robin’s hands, and he experiences a phantom memory of his own two children, each as defenseless and small as this one. He remembers the weight of each of them, precious and fleeting, as if it hasn't been seventeen infinite years since Lucina’s birth.

“Would you like to hold him?”

Grima stares at Robin. There’s no mocking or humor in Robin’s dark eyes. “Why would you offer that to me?”

Robin gives him a level stare back, and then shifts along the couch, toward Grima. There’s nowhere to go unless he wants to stand. Before Grima knows it, Robin’s leg is pressed against his own. Carefully Robin maneuvers the small, precious bundle into Grima’s arms. Grima trembles, and takes him, arms curling around the baby with an ease he thought he’d long since forgotten.

Something within him shifts and eases down, an anxious, angry something that relaxes in the baby’s presence. He stares with amazement as the tiny hand opens and closes on the soft fabric. The baby stares up at him for a moment, studying him with wide blue eyes, alien and yet somehow perfect.

His weight is almost exactly like Morgan’s, all those years ago.

A smile moves across Grima’s mouth, strange and unfamiliar.

The baby makes a noise, and squirms, and Grima holds onto him a little tighter.

“His name is Marc,” Robin says, still soft, practically leaning against Grima’s shoulder. There’s a delicate smile on Robin’s mouth - Grima can see it from the corner of his eyes.

“Hello, Marc,” Grima says, mesmerized by the intense stare in this child’s too-large eyes. The content scent of omega gathers around them, and Grima cannot tell if it’s his, or Robin’s. He doesn’t want to know.

“You remember your own, don’t you?” Robin whispers. “Lucina and Morgan. You remember holding them in your arms.”

Grima freezes, and suddenly the weight in his arms feels dangerous - threatening. _I hurt them all..._ This is why Robin handed Grima the baby - to deflect from what he wanted to speak about. So he could broadside Grima with a line of questioning.

It works - because instead of getting angry, at least at first, Grima echoes with emptiness. 

“Yes,” he says, forehead creasing with the surprising pain of it. “Of course I do. But I - remember hurting them too.”

_Hurt him,_  the voice demands, and Grima’s hands tighten on the blankets. If he still had the knife...

“No!” Grima shoves the baby back at Robin, rejecting both the voice and the potential risk. Marc makes a little sound of aggravation at being manhandled so, and Grima feels a sharp pang of fear for an instant before the baby settles back down in his father’s arms.

Robin looks down. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Grima knows that he wasn’t. “You’re trying to fix me,” he growls. He’s had quite enough of pity and sympathy, of certain people who think he needs it.

When Robin looks up, he seems guilty. “I am,” he admits. “Haven’t you suffered enough?”

Grima laughs, and red simmers in the corners of his vision. It’s such an innocent question, speaking volumes to how different the two of them truly are.

The man who single-handedly destroyed his entire world, who killed everyone, who sacrificed his own mate to a god who wanted to devour every piece of his happiness… has never suffered enough.

“Never.” Grima laughs, because if he doesn’t, something else will come out of him. He’s tired of trying, of pulling and pushing against the two impossible forces within him - the god, and the omega, and what little bits Grima can still call “himself” stuck between them.

Marc starts to squirm at the sound. Robin frowns, but doesn’t say anything else, and eventually the mirthless humor dies away.

The baby calms when he does, lying there peacefully, watching with no condemnation in his wide eyes. Robin offers him back, but Grima throws his hands up between them.

“It’s not that easy,” he snarls, and is surprised to find that those words are aimed both at Robin, who can hear, and at Frederick, who cannot.

Grima rises and starts pacing, needing to put more space between himself and this paternal scene, before it sucks him back in. That baby is no more his own than - than Lucina and Morgan are. He’s rejected them to protect them, and he rejects this baby as well. After a few moments of pacing to regain his poise, he turns to the side. “Why did you call me here?”

“Two reasons,” Robin says, looking haggard and worn once more. “I wanted to thank you for what you did for me, when I went into labor. You didn’t have to help me like you did.”

Grima looks away and digs his fingernails into the fleshy part of his palm. He remembers how quickly this same exact conversation with the Exalt veered into pain and discomfort. “What is the other reason?”

“I wanted to check on you,” Robin says.

“Check on me?” Grima demands, and glares over his shoulder at Robin. This sounds suspiciously like pity, and Grima won’t take _that_ from anyone.

“Yes. After our conversation… it didn’t end as I’d hoped it would.”

Grima has to think for a few moments to recall it. Thoughts of Frederick have crowded out the discussion. Grima doesn’t know which is worse - thinking of the patient alpha waiting even now out in the hallway, or remembering the conversation he and Robin had been in the middle of when Robin went into labor.

“It seemed pretty finished to me,” he growls.

“Was it?” Robin arches one eyebrow at him. The baby coos and squirms. “I remember it differently. You had just asked me why I didn’t let you die.”

“I don’t care about that,” Grima lies. He’s not ready to hear the answer, although he feels as if he already knows it.

Robin gives him a look. “It’s been five months,” he whispers. “We don’t wish you dead. I thought…”

“You thought I’d be grateful for _redemption,_ ” Grima finishes, anger rousing molten and familiar within him. He welcomes it, knowing every inch of that sensation. “That I’d change and be just like you, and be _grateful_ for what you did to me.” Grima takes a step toward Robin, the low table bumping against his knees. “You let Chr--” His throat closes around the name. “You let _him_ do that to me. You took everything away from me!”

Robin stares at him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Grima forces his breathing to calm, and realizes what he’s said. It’s not Robin who took it all away - it was Grima himself who _gave_ it away. Long ago, he’d killed his own mate and hunted down everyone he used to love.

If anything, Robin gave him something back - his humanity. And he hates it.

“I…” Grima says, and all the fury escapes from him. The scarlet stops flickering across his vision. There’s suddenly nothing left but a chilling lethargy so heavy it’s almost painful. He sags and sways, clutching at his head, covering his cheeks and partially blocking his eyes.

Robin rises and moves to the bassinet at the side of the couch, easing Marc into it.

“Come here,” he says gently, sounding like Sumia when she used to coax a frightened pegasi to eat out of her hands. He takes Grima’s hands - warm against the chill - and guides him back to the couch. Grima staggers along, his vision blurred as if looking through dirty glass.

“Relax,” Robin soothes, and pulls Grima into a hug.

Grima stiffens, feeling those strange arms around him, and for a moment he wishes they were someone else’s. He remembers his mate, long ago, soothing him awake from a nightmare… and more recently, Frederick’s hand on his hair.

Deliberately, he breathes in Robin’s omega scent, grounding himself in the here and now. His hands go around Robin to press lightly against the hard edge of his shoulderblades, and then he hooks his chin against Robin’s shoulder. Grima closes his eyes and accepts what Robin is offering.

For a single, fleeting instant, it feels like he’s rising out of a chrysalis, stretching into a new form. It’s - terrifying, but he can’t stop it.

And then it’s done.

Robin holds onto him until some undetermined moment, and they break apart in unison. Grima’s eyes are closed as he sinks back against the couch, slack and boneless. He’s so tired of fighting, but without that resistance he feels off-balance.

_Pitiful,_  the voice says, and he winces. When Grima opens his eyes, Robin has gathered up Marc from the bassinet once more. He gives Grima a faint smile as he sits beside him.

Grima suddenly wants to strike that look off of Robin’s face, but he resists the urge.

“Feeling better?” Robin asks, still smiling.

As if a single hug can fix everything that torments him. Grima scowls. “I want you to reassign Frederick.”

That surprises the look right off of Robin’s face. “What? Why?”

“Do I need a reason?” Grima demands, hands curled into fists. Something is fluttering anxiously in his chest, but he ignores it. Damned if he’s going to tell Robin anything about what happened between the him and Frederick. Knowing Robin, he’ll probably try to sort through Grima’s feelings, to parse meaning where there is none, and _that_ is something Grima wishes to avoid.

“Yes, you do,” Robin says. “I know Frederick is sometimes intense, but he means--”

“I don’t want him around any longer.” Grima interrupts Robin with an emphatic hand gesture.

Robin tilts his head knowingly.

_I don’t need anyone. Especially not Frederick._

Grima feels a heat rise in his cheeks, and knows he’s flushing. He claws his palms instead of reaching up to hide his face, although he really wants to.

“Is this truly what you want?” Robin asks, and puts a hand on Grima’s forearm. That gentleness almost undoes Grima.

The words won’t come, not right away. He wants to say yes, to send Frederick away from him - _before he gets too close to us,_  the voice whispers - but something inside is frantically begging him to stop this. That something wants Frederick near.

Grima opens his mouth and sucks in a breath. He’ll prove to everyone - to himself - that he truly doesn’t need Frederick.

He meets Robin’s eyes, and nods once, sharply. “Yes.”

Robin is looking at the scars on his cheeks, a discomforted expression on his face. “Fine, I’ll reassign him tonight.”

Grima longs to retract his request, but instead he holds himself steady and still. His omega is frantic now, beating against the walls of the cage he’s tried to contain it with, but his resolve is stronger. This will be the best for everyone. Frederick won’t be stuck with Grima, and Grima won’t have to deal with the alpha. He won’t have to worry about what lingers between them. He stands, wanting this terrible conversation to be over with already.

But Robin isn’t done yet. He stands as well, and moves to stop Grima before he walks for the door.

“What should I tell Frederick, if he asks why?”

Grima’s skin feels warm. He doesn’t want to give Frederick any reason, but he also doesn’t want to lie outright. “Just tell him… I need some space.”

For some reason, Robin looks relieved.

Grima scowls and shoves past Robin, and the omega steps aside.

“I’ll let your new guard know that you can come and see me, or Frederick, anytime you want.”

Grima feels at once glad of it, and furious. “That won’t be necessary,” Grima snaps over his shoulder.

With shaking hands, he throws the door open and stalks out into the hallway, in that moment not even caring if Frederick follows.

Of course, the alpha does.

~*~

On their quiet way back to his quarters, Frederick speaks. His voice is calm and accepting, as it has been since Grima’s outburst, and for a moment Grima lets the words drift through him. He likes it, even as the tone grates against him, a strange push-pull that makes it difficult to think.

A sharp pang of something similar to guilt - which Grima would never admit to feeling, even to himself - shivers down Grima’s spine. The alpha doesn’t know yet that this is their last day together. Frederick is blissfully unaware that Grima asked Robin to replace him. For a moment Grima imagines Frederick’s fury when Robin tells him, the way that anger would bite and nip across his skin -

There’s a pointed throat-clearing noise, which scatters his thoughts. Grima shoots Frederick a blank look. He’s missed Frederick’s words completely, lost in the deep melodic timbre.

If Frederick is bothered at having to repeat himself, there’s no hint of it in his expression. Grima forces himself to focus on the words, this time. “That night when Robin went into labor, I knew it was you that called for me. I felt it.”

_Felt it..._ Grima looks at Frederick’s neck and the tie holding his shirt closed - at the pulse beating against that skin. “What does that mean?”

“I knew it wasn’t him. I knew it was _you_." Frederick stops walking, and Grima turns toward him.

His eyes find their way to Frederick’s, despite his subconscious decision to steer clear of doing exactly that. There is some aching pain resonant within the alpha’s eyes, a kind of pain that draws Grima closer, although he doesn’t know if he wants to bask in that pain… or ease it away.

Frederick’s voice is soft and tender. “You aren’t Robin… but you used to be. I understand this much. I want to know more, if you’ll tell me.”

Grima stands completely still, hands tucked into opposite fraying sleeves, staring at Frederick. He sees him, sees the alpha and everything he’s offering, and in that moment he knows he made the right decision, asking Robin to send Frederick away. He needs distance from him before… before.

Grima steps toward Frederick, one step and then three, until Frederick’s scent fills his nostrils and the alpha’s broad shoulders block out the light from the sconces and the windows lining the hall. He breathes in and keeps his head down, knowing that if he looks up now Frederick will see what Grima has done.

“I gave you a quick death,” Grima says to Frederick’s collarbone. “My magic hit you here.” His right hand moves, fingers formed into a crude spearhead, pressing against the center of Frederick’s vest, between two of the buttons. The fabric creases slightly, spreading out across the broad chest, and he feels Frederick’s heart beating, feels the slow inhale expanding beneath his fingers.

It hurts him more and more to remember it, and he narrows his eyes. When he struck Frederick, blood had spurted out, coating Grima’s hands. Frederick’s grunt of pain returns to him, the way his body flinched back away from the killing blow. Grima can still feel the blood on his skin if he focuses, as if it were still stuck, cold, between his fingers. His voice grows thick, but he has to get this out, as this might be the very last time he speaks with Frederick. “You apologized as you died… apologized for not keeping Morgan safe. But you did. It’s why I left you for last.” Grima shivers, and his eyes move to meet Frederick’s. “I left you for last because you were defending Morgan.”

Frederick’s eyebrows come down. “Morgan?”

“Yes, Morgan.” One of Grima’s fingers traces the scars on his cheeks - the marks he’d put on Morgan, too.

Frederick follows his deliberate motion and then looks into Grima’s eyes. There’s understanding there, and of course that pity. The sight of it nearly curdles his stomach.

Grima goes to pull his fingertips away from the fabric, but Frederick catches his wrist before he’s moved more than an inch. His eyes are bright, and filled with alpha, and he must like what he sees in Grima’s expression now, because he shifts closer. The alpha’s lips part, and his face softens unexpectedly.

The sharp grind of the vambrace against his half-healed arm makes Grima gasp involuntarily. Clarity flashes through his mind; a faint tinge of red colors the edges of his vision. He ducks his head, not wanting Frederick to see it, and the moment is broken.

But Frederick still holds onto him, as if his arm is a rope to safety.

“Let go,” Grima growls, but at the same time he welcomes the pain.

Frederick sighs, a gust of air that puffs past Grima’s face, warm against his cheeks. But he listens, and releases Grima’s arm. His fingers trail along Grima’s hand for a moment before falling away.

“Thank you for telling me,” Frederick says, sounding sad.

~*~

The next morning, true to Robin's word, a new, unfamiliar guard is in Frederick’s place.

The beta glowers at Grima, obviously annoyed with the assignment. Grima grins back at him with scarlet filling his burning eyes, until the guard looks away.

Grima ignores him after that, moving to eat the tasteless bread from his breakfast platter. He tries to ignore the soft wisp of a voice whispering for him to march to Robin’s rooms and demand his proper guard back.

He swipes the forgotten knife under his guard’s inattentive nose, slipping it into his pocket. The weight of it is comforting, but he can’t help but feel the invisible strings attached to it, pulled taut. He longs to follow those strings, to let the knife take him to Frederick - _and stab him with it._

With a shudder, Grima retreats to his bed and tries to sleep, clutching the worn handle close to him.

The absence grows more and more noticeable as the day drags on, until Grima’s chest feels empty, as if some vital organ has been ripped out from within his ribcage and he’s dying by inches.

_It is better this way. He cannot hurt us now,_  the voice soothes, and Grima embraces the numbness.

That first day passes, and the second day is easier. He is still moody and angry, ignoring his guard most of the time, coming out infrequently for meals, but it is no different from how he acted before.

Robin sends for him, but Grima ignores the guard until he goes away. He doesn’t even care what the guard tells Robin. Frederick is gone, and things are as they were before.

_You’re going to die alone -_

“Shut up and let it happen,” Grima growls, drowning out the memory of Frederick’s voice.

~*~

Seven days after the birth, the Exalt and the Royal Consort throw a feast in the new prince’s honor. Everyone is invited. Even Grima is expected to make an appearance, so he does, scowling onto the best china. Well-wishers parade gifts for the seven-day-old Marc, who rests mostly silent and content in Robin’s arms. The toddler Lucina runs along the length of the table, chased by her nursemaid, only to be caught by Frederick, who hoists her into the air with a squeal of childish delight and returns her to her nurse.

It is easier, now, to ignore the pangs of loss still burning in Grima’s stomach, twisting his awareness into knots. But seeing Frederick with the young princess makes him tremble. He wants that, even as he remembers exactly what he did with the last family he made with the love of his life. The scars lay visible on Morgan’s cheeks, in the cold hard edge of Lucina’s eyes.

Frederick looks at Grima, striking sudden and fast while he is distracted by memory.

Frederick’s gaze is a burning hot spear through his chest. He draws in a gasped breath and grips the edge of the table.

It feels… hurt. Furious. Grima shoves a hand into his pocket and pricks his fingertips on the serrated blade to distract from the call: _Look at me,_ Frederick is saying without words. Grima knew he would be upset over the forced separation, but he’d hoped the emotions would fade. They have not.

For a horrible moment, Grima thinks that Frederick will come to him, that the alpha will air things best left unspoken.

Grima looks away; he doesn’t want to challenge Frederick, to fight with him. He’s tired of fighting, exhausted from the last week and every day he wakes up without his godhead. His neck swelters beneath the bunched up hood of his cloak, and his shifts his shoulders.

When he finally looks back, Frederick has turned away. _Good,_  he thinks, and sinks back in his chair.

Midway through the meal, he finally realizes what has been bothering him in the back of his mind for the last day or two. If he’d been less focused on Frederick, he might have realized it sooner.

Grima freezes as languid warmth coils in his gut. Panic claws its way up his throat. The food, which he already finds tasteless, turns to ash and dust in his mouth. Automatically, he swallows it down, taking a sip of water to clear it.

Conversations swirl around him, words blending together as he’s suddenly very aware of every single person filling the hall.

It’s begun.

He knows this sensation - he’s been dreading it for months.

Grima is going into heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the final bit of this chapter written for months now, and I've got maybe about half of the next chapter written out already. This was my most anticipated scene in the whole story!  
> Grima asking Robin to send Frederick away was a complete surprise to me, but it also felt so right when it happened - he lashes out to protect himself and this was the only thing he could think of to stop Frederick from getting any closer.  
> Not sure when the next chapter will be finalized, but I can tell you there are only two more chapters.  
> Thank you all for sticking through this story, and please let me know what you think! (Even if I don't respond to your comments, I do read and appreciate every one. It's been a rough few months...)


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

“No,” he whispers in horror. After all this time trying to keep it from happening, of fighting against his weak nature, he’s still going into his heat.

His eyes move of their own volition to his one-time mate, but the Exalt doesn’t look up from his newborn son. The Exalt has his true mate, and doesn’t need the extra, the piece that doesn't belong. Grima isn’t even sure that he wants him, now.

Grima avoids looking at Frederick, afraid that something in his expression will give him away, will reveal his condition. He can’t let anyone know.

He closes his eyes, and the memories crowd in.

They kept him locked away, the last time, fearful of what he would do to any alpha that tried to claim him. His power had shattered, but they didn’t know it. Grima had been left alone, no suppressants or anyone to help him through it - just brutal, unrelenting need. If it weren’t for Robin, who sneaked into Grima’s carriage at night to offer his calming omega scent, Grima might have lost more than his power. He’d barely held onto his sanity, as it were.

_They will lock us away again_ , the voice breathes. _We have to get away._

On that, they are in accord. He cannot stay here in the hall, and risk what will happen when they learn he is going into heat. They may assign an alpha to him - a dubious honor, but no unmated alpha would turn down the opportunity to help an omega through their heat. Or they may lock him up again, tie him down and break him. Whatever comes of his heat, it must be on his own terms. He won’t let them choose for him again.

The knife is secure and ready in his pocket. Already that urge to retreat somewhere safe, to protect himself, rises up. The hall crowds around him, too many voices, too much movement.

Grima rises, dropping the napkin to his plate, and struggles to act normal. He feels everyone’s gaze on him, on his weakening, vulnerable body, and he finds hate burning a counterpoint against the slowly growing chaos within. They aren’t really watching him - they never do, for he embarrasses them - but he can’t deny the frantic thoughts within his mind.

Grima can tell, even without turning toward the alpha across the hall, that Frederick’s eyes are on him.

Beneath that hot gaze, Grima stands tall and proud. Some measure of self-confidence or bravado returns to him. He does _not_ look at Frederick. He strides purposefully from the hall, and nobody stops him. Let them think he is bitter, a sore loser… anything except the truth.

The air is less intense when the great room, holding many of his fondest memories, is behind him. It feels as if he can breathe again, and he does, drawing in slowly, holding that panic at bay.

Grima walks mechanically through the halls, absorbed in the senses of his body. Memories of long-ago heats are dredged up, idyllic encounters, all overshadowed by the current fear. It might be morning before he is insensate with desire, before he would beg any alpha or beta to mate him. No amount of bracing can prepare himself for it, can fortify his body to not wish for it. With his godhead, he had stopped the cycle, pounded it into dust inside of him, but he is powerless against it now. He is mortal - weak.

_Useless_.

Grima enters his rooms and leans back against the door, closing it with the heavy press of his body. After a few moments, he opens his eyes. Strangeness greets him - books piled up in messy stacks upon the desk, a small rocking horse tucked into the corner. The bassinet, empty beside the couch.

There are omega and alpha scents everywhere. Robin, and Chrom.

These aren’t his rooms, and haven’t been in quite some time.

A pained sound like a dying animal rips from his mouth.

Grima staggers forward into welcome, and unwelcome, memory. He _remembers_ , and it hurts like fire and steel, burning his insides.

Phantom laughter echoes as young, impulsive Morgan climbs the closest book stack, and Lucina pirouettes around the room. Chrom leans a hip on the one bare patch of desk, drawing Grima’s attention from his studies with a caress and a smile.

Grima knows he’s alone in these imposter rooms, but happiness’s ghosts linger on in every darkened corner.

He shakes his head, clutching at his temples. The scars on his cheeks scratch at his palms. He won’t get any relief here, and blindly, Grima spins to leave.

 

~*~

 

The knife flies into the desktop with a satisfying sound _._ Grima has been left alone for an hour, and the more time passes the more he's certain: he is going into heat, and it will be as bad as the last one.

He pulls the knife free as he paces past the desk, and tosses it again. _Thock_.

This part was always the worst for him - the pressure building within his body as his omega prepared to be mated. But now, it’s even worse, because he _knows_ what’s coming. It wasn’t easy, the last time - not like before. It was agony, the cramps a near-constant ache deep within, unsated desire a burning counterpoint. Every lucid thought raged against it, and against the fact that nobody would come and help him.

Grima longs to lash out, to flay and strip and skewer, as if his heat were a person he could simply destroy. He’s been in control for so long that he trembles with the thought of letting go, and letting this weakness consume him.

At least he knows the Exalt won't be coming to help him through this. He's not sure if anyone else will, not sure if he wants anyone else - _Frederick_ \- to come. Grima thinks he would rather be alone, except he knows from the last time that not being mated is its own agony. He shifts his shoulders and pulls the blade from the desk.

_We'll get through this shame and come out the other side,_ that voice promises. _And they will pay for this injustice._

_Thock_.

An ache settles into his lower abdomen, and he recalls how his mate used to massage his lower back and hips, easing the pain with touch and distraction. Grima sinks into the wooden chair before the desk, curling his knees up against his chest. His skin tingles beneath newly-rough fabric, each individual thread scratching. The cloak and bolero jacket are already discarded, and sweat trickles down his spine beneath his sleeveless shirt. His forehead beads, and he swipes at it with the rough vambrace. He’s already removed the left vambrace, but the right remains.

“Three days,” he whispers. Three days, and he'll be through it. All his other heats had been three days long. It is the one constant he can rely upon now.

He'd had dalliances over the few years before he met Chrom, mostly friendly villagers who were willing to take in the young vagrant omega for those three days. There had been one or two he thought about staying with. The sweet lanky librarian who had given him a book as a parting gift, the young soldier who had taken a leave of absence to help him…

But then he’d fallen in with the Shepherds. Any one of the alphas would have been glad to assist with his heat, and he flourished in their company. But he always had a soft spot for their fearless prince, since waking up and staring into those blue eyes, backlit with sun.

Memory swamps him, and after a moment he gives into it.

 

_There he is._

_Robin pauses in the middle of the hall, and then rushes on ahead to meet the prince. Chrom smiles and greets him, blue eyes bright with affection._

_Robin knows the exact moment Chrom smells him, can see his reaction._

_“Robin,” he whispers, that affection deepening into something more. “Robin.” Instantly, there’s concern in his voice, and a bit of possessiveness that makes the hairs on Robin’s body stand on end. Chrom makes an abortive move to step away, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. “You shouldn’t wander the halls, smelling like… that.”_

_Robin smiles, and knows he’s made the right choice. “Chrom, I’d like you to help me with my heat.”_

_The prince blushes, a small, pleased smile on his face. “Me? You don’t want Vaike, or Frederick?” He comes closer, close enough that Robin can see the alpha in the depths of his aqua-blue eyes._

_When Robin breathes in, the prince’s desire lingers like a fine perfume. Things coil tight and hot, low in his body, and Robin’s mouth parts. “I know what I want. I want you,” Robin declares, his heat making him bold._

_But Chrom doesn’t mind. He leans forward, fingers just the right shade of roughness against Robin’s cheek as he cups Robin’s face and kisses him. Chrom’s lips are soft and tender for all of an instant. Their first kiss is tinged with passion, and Robin’s mind reels because it’s never felt like_ this _before. He trembles, and clings to Chrom’s arms when he pulls away._

_“Your room, or mine?” Chrom asks, eyes not straying from Robin’s._

_“Whichever is closer,” Robin whispers, body thrumming with vibration like a plucked violin string._

 

Grima runs his fingers across his lips, lost in the memory. He can feel that first kiss, can taste the desire. A low, soft groan escapes from his mouth, sounding almost like his once-mate’s name.

_Thock thock thock_.

Grima’s eyes fly open. Someone is at the door. Sensation coils in his stomach, and lower.

He rises from the hard wooden chair, knife in hand, his body already betraying him with anticipation. He stands on light feet, ready to bolt for the bedroom. “Leave me alone,” he calls.

The doorknob shifts, but the door is locked. There are only a few people that would dare to disturb him, and he doesn’t want to see any of them. He knows his scent isn’t strong enough to seep out into the hall yet. They can’t know.

“Go away!” he snarls.

“Unlock the door.”

Grima stands up straighter at the command in Frederick’s voice, and takes a step forward. He doesn’t want to do it, but at the same time, it’s Frederick. He’s… missed that voice.

“I want to be alone,” Grima says, pleased that his voice doesn’t tremble, but even as he says it, he knows it for the lie it is. He doesn’t want to be alone, not for this.

“Let me in. Please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it, putting control firmly into Grima’s hands. Frederick sounds… worried, and angry. Grima likes the desperate edge to his voice, or maybe he hates it.

He goes to the door, presses the knife tip to the heavy wood, and then pauses with his fingers on the deadbolt. If he does this, Frederick will know he’s in heat. The suffering and embarrassment will come sooner than if he stays in his room, away from everyone.

Grima thinks about how much he missed Frederick, during his rut, and over the past seven days without his near-constant presence. He’s become a weakness. For a moment he imagines how this will go, and thinks - hopes - for a hand firm on the back of his neck, those expressive eyebrows telling him that Frederick has missed him too. He remembers how Frederick sat on the bed beside him and touched him, as nobody else would, stroking his hair as he pulled the pieces of himself back together.

Frederick… is the closest thing to a companion he has, besides Robin. This will be the test. If Frederick turns away from him now, Grima will know that there’s no point in pursuing anything between them.

He licks his lips, decided.

_Don’t do it_ , the voice says suddenly. _We don’t need him_.

“Yes, I do,” he whispers, and twists his hand.

The lock clicks, resounding through his body. Grima backs away, ignoring both the stinging anger and the ever-growing desire. He curls up sideways in Frederick’s armchair with the knife, resting his scarred cheek against the padded back.

His choices usually end up hurting everyone, but himself especially. So he braces for the pain.

Frederick opens the door slowly. He slips inside, peering around as he closes the door. He looks furious, but he’s holding himself calm somehow. Grima thinks he can smell Frederick’s anger from here, and it smells _good._ The alpha’s eyes fall on Grima, and he exhales in relief, as if he expected to find him hurt or injured. The concern is at once touching and aggravating.

“We need to talk about…” Frederick stops, and his nostrils flare. His eyebrows shoot up, mouth parting.

He senses Grima’s heat. Whatever he came here to say is gone, dashed up against the knowledge bared before him.

Grima stays still, hope a spark of flame in his hollow chest. Sweat trails a long line down his throat.

“Robin,” Frederick says softly, his eyebrows coming together. There’s that damnable pity again, but Frederick stays right beside the door, standing still.

_Robin_ , the word echoes, mocking. _Robin, Robin..._

Grima unfurls from the chair, dangerous and fracturing in parts. “I don’t want your pity,” he snarls.

_You’re going to die alone if you keep pushing everyone away_ , Frederick’s voice returns in his mind. He wants to go to Frederick and let the alpha wash away all his pretenses and faults, but it’s not that easy. And the alpha makes no move toward him, not like in the hallway, a week earlier.

The distance Grima imposed between them has taken its toll.

Frederick just stands there, staring - and something in Grima snaps. He’d thought he was ready for the rejection, braced against it, but he isn’t ready for this.

Frederick doesn't want him - in that instant he's sure of it.

Grima lets out a pained, desperate cry, and flees to the bathroom, slamming the door. He doesn’t lock it - his hands are shaking too much - he backs away, tripping and nearly crashing into the tub. He isn’t ready for this. He knows that Frederick won’t help him. Why should he?

He hunkers in the cold tub, hands over his eyes, breathing hard and fast, chest heaving. Who would ever want to touch him, to offer him comfort? He is Grima, the foul god who nearly destroyed everything. Chrom - his mate - wants nothing to do with him. Nobody does.

_I warned you_ , that insidious voice gloats. _I warned you not to let him in_.

“Shut up. Shut up!” Grima digs his nails into the scars on his cheeks, every bad decision he’s made coming back to him. Something sharp pricks his chin - the knife, still in his hands.

The door opens.

“Robin, what’s wrong? Has someone hurt you?”

“I’m not Robin,” Grima hisses, his voice echoing wild through the enclosed space. “I'm Grima. I'm Grima!”

Frederick comes to his knees beside the tub and takes Grima’s hands. His eyes are wide with concern as he pulls them apart, forcing Grima to look up at him. There’s blood flashing on the tip of the knife, and then it clatters to the hard tiles, startled free by Frederick’s grip.

Frederick envelops Grima in his arms.

Everything stills.

The panic recedes.

For a few moments, Grima is numb, free-falling despite the strength of those arms. Alpha scent surrounds him, telling him everything is fine - the basest of alpha instincts, to protect and defend, rising to help calm his panicked omega. Grima nuzzles deeper into Frederick’s neck, greedy for this comfort, even as the voice inside screams that this is wrong.

Then he realizes - Frederick is touching him, and he has wanted this for a long time.

Tears burst from Grima’s eyes and he lets out a sob, and his hands tighten in the material of Frederick’s vest.

Frederick’s warm hand rubs against the grain of his hair, fingertips firm against his scalp, gliding back and forth. Grima’s limbs slacken gradually until he's being completely supported by Frederick.

They are silent, except for Grima’s jerky sobs. It feels good, freeing, even though he dreads the moment Frederick asks for an explanation for his reaction.

It comes sooner than he likes, as his hysteria fades away, leaving him horribly exposed. The edges of unseen scars have come to light, and Frederick is seeing them, raw and unfiltered.

“What is wrong?” Frederick whispers into his hair, gently rocking him despite the awkward edge of the tub between them.

Grima turns his face up to Frederick’s, cheek resting against the alpha’s shoulder. He’s distantly aware that he probably looks terrible, all red-faced and overwrought, but can’t bring himself to care. Not when Frederick’s face and body are so close. He studies Frederick for a moment, but there’s no condemnation in him. It’s as if he’s content to hold Grima - as if he _wants_ to.

Can Frederick really want to know, and to _help_?

“My heat,” Grima whispers. “I'm... I don’t want this.”

Frederick’s arms stiffen and then he rubs his thumb on Grima’s bare shoulder. All this touching on his sensitive body has Grima reeling. Aside from Robin, he's been deprived of all affection. Nobody wants to touch him.

But Frederick has touched him a few times - and he’s holding him right now.

There's not enough time left, and if Grima is going to prepare himself for the heat, alone, he has to know soon. He doesn't want to force this question, and neither does he want to send Frederick away, but there's no time to address what is sparking and shifting between them.

“Frederick,” he says, and then turns his face into Frederick’s shoulder, unwilling to meet his penetrating eyes. “Will you stay with me?” His voice is muffled and strange.

Frederick breathes out and goes still as marble, and his scent goes sharp, beckoning. “This is not ideal,” he says, soft and hesitant.

The hesitation speaks for itself.

“Never mind,” Grima snaps. It was stupid to ask for this. He feels cold - he pushes at Frederick’s arms, but they are like unyielding tree roots gathered around him, trapping him. “Never mind, I don't need-”

“Hush,” Frederick whispers. He loosens his hold on Grima slightly, tucks a gentle finger under his jaw - and kisses him.

Grima isn't expecting it, and for a few moments he is completely unresponsive. It's as if his mind can't comprehend what is happening, to send the appropriate signals to his mouth and hands. Frederick’s mouth is soft, and warm, and everything Grima expected it to be.

Frederick pulls back, studying him, a hand going to his hair. “Was that - did I misinterpret what you wanted?”

Grima grins. It's the worst timing ever, and he's afraid that Frederick will get intimidated by his strangeness, by this smile, but Frederick just _kissed_ him. Grima runs fingers across his lips, still a little moist, and incredibly tender.

Then he stretches up and kisses the confusion from Frederick’s face. It might be his heat pushing him to this point, but Grima is still in control. The hand in his hair tightens and loosens, and then both of Frederick’s hands are moving along Grima’s body, spreading fire and warmth.

“Come here,” Frederick says against Grima’s lips.

Grima finds himself hoisted into Frederick’s arms, and the strangeness reminds him of flying, for an instant. His scent is intoxicating, desire and warmth and alpha curling around him like a warm blanket. Grima clings to Frederick’s neck, calm and docile as the alpha carries him from the cold dark bathroom into the bedroom, lit by fading sunlight.

It's only when Frederick sets him gently down on the bed that he realizes the voice in his mind has gone silent. It's just him echoing around in here, bouncing off of sturdy Frederick. Not Robin… but not Grima. Pieces of both of them.

Frederick stands up and Grima instantly grabs whatever part of Frederick he can reach. One hand tightens on his collar, the other his hand.

“Don’t leave,” Grima hisses, gripping the fabric, not caring how desperate he sounds.

Frederick caresses his face, leaning over the bed. His voice has gone gravelly and deep, his brown eyes weighted and _ready_. “If I stay, you know what’s going to happen. I…” He closes his eyes for a moment, a faint blush hitting his cheeks. Grima stares, amazed and slightly disbelieving that Frederick is blushing… for him. “I want this. I want _you_.” Frederick looks back, suddenly, and Grima’s heart pounds against his ribs. “Is this what you want?”

Another choice. Grima is terrified about who and what will get hurt if he agrees to this. But with Frederick above him and his heat urging him to explore every inch of that alpha body, he gives Frederick a small smile. Grima has been making decisions all along. Maybe he should make this one, too.

“Yes,” Grima says, and moves Frederick’s hand to his neck, to the point where his pulse beats hot beneath the skin, strong calloused thumb pressed against it. “Yes, Frederick, _please_.”

Frederick shivers, his eyes gone alpha for a moment. He slips onto the bed over Grima, parting his thighs with a knee. Grima lets out a quiet, excited breath, all his attention on Frederick.

“If I do this,” Frederick says, “I won't be able to hold back. Are you absolutely certa-”

“Hush,” Grima whispers, rising up onto an elbow to grip the back of Frederick’s neck and tug him down to meet his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally thought I could complete this story in about 8,000 words... turns out I'm much more long winded than I thought. I've currently written about 10,000 words and it keeps on growing. Also, those 10,000 words were some of the hardest I've had to write... Grima is going through a BIG change and his uncertainty and doubts made it so difficult to get right. There will probably be 3 more chapters after this one (famous last words!) 
> 
> The good news is that I've nearly finished with the next chapter, so I should be posting it by the first week of September. Thank you as always for reading, and please let me know your thoughts! :)


	8. Chapter 8

Frederick growls, and kisses him like this is their last kiss, as if tomorrow they go to war. Grima melts into it, welcomes that dominating alpha presence pressing him into the bed.

Someone cares. Frederick cares. Frederick, his constant companion these past few months, is here, touching him, holding him, _kissing_ him. It feels like a dream, like a nightmare disguised as pleasantry.

Frederick eases fingers down Grima’s clothed body, and he arches into the touch. Even fully clothed, it feels so good. It feels as if he’s coming back to life. This will break him, he knows, but he can’t stop, won’t resist.

Frederick’s tongue parts his lips, hands hard and strong against Grima’s thighs, pressing the too-rough fabric against him. And Grima lets him, greedy for all the contact he can get.

When they part, Grima lets out a soft whine. Frederick stares at him, and his eyes rake down Grima’s body, seeing through the clothing and skin, into his hot - burning - core. It is at once wonderful and horrifying. Frederick’s nostrils flare as he scents the charged air between them.

Grima suddenly realizes he is seeping lubricant, and that is what Frederick is smelling.

He is painfully aware that he’s handed Frederick every single key, holding nothing back. Frederick knows that Grima needs him. He can pull away, and break him, leave him in shattered pieces, sealed in his fate as Frederick walks away. It's what he deserves.  In this pause, it would be so easy for the alpha to stand up and turn away...

But Frederick doesn’t leave. He leans over Grima again, and captures his mouth. His hands move with more purpose now, more certain in what they want. Grima whines as Frederick’s long fingers brush beneath him, climbing down the backs of his thighs until he sweeps against that spot. Even with fabric between them it makes Grima squirm. He tosses his head back, and Frederick kisses his exposed neck. Frederick’s hand moves up to his erection, palming it, and Grima can’t draw enough breath.

It’s too much, all at once, and Grima takes hold of Frederick’s wrist, holding him still. He cracks his eyes open, panting hard, and Frederick leans on one elbow over him. His eyes glow with alpha pleasure, and with something else, something that Grima saw reflected in his Chrom's eyes, ages ago.

“You're wonderful,” Frederick whispers, studying his slackened face.

Grima blinks up at him, some of the pleasure-haze drifting back. “I'm not,” he protests, the old argument, hatred rising up and strangling the pleasure. “I killed you. I killed everyone, I-”

Frederick raises Grima’s hand and places it against the alpha’s firm, well-muscled chest, warm through the soft shirt. “Feel that,” he orders. “Feel my heartbeat.”

Grima focuses on Frederick’s heart, strong beneath his palm.

“I want this,” Frederick says. “I want _you_.”

The quick heartbeat, almost in time with Frederick’s words, makes Grima aware of every inch of Frederick pressed against him.

The alpha’s words ring with truth as he continues, “And I think you're wonderful. Infuriating and stubborn and _wonderful_.”

Grima stares up at him, overwhelmed.

Frederick wants to do this... to mate with him. It defies all logic. Grima fought so hard to keep everyone away, but Frederick still got in beneath his guard and dug his figurative teeth in before Grima could react. Like with the Exalt… Grima let him in, too, during that last battle. Hesitation is its own choice, and he chose. He chose to sacrifice his power…

Just as he chooses now to submit to Frederick.

He relaxes, calms his breathing, and nods at Frederick. Not that he's saying he's wonderful - no, he still disagrees with that. But he's accepting Frederick’s alpha in its entirety. His alpha dominance, his scent… everything, and whatever comes next.

He needs this.

Their clothing comes off haphazardly, in bits and spurts. Frederick’s chest is all hard hot lines, and Grima lets the heat guide him in exploring. He discovers that Frederick is ticklish to light kisses at his collarbone, and Frederick learns all too quickly that Grima has not been touched in pleasure in far too long - Frederick gives little pleased sighs as Grima reacts to every caress, desire and urgency ratcheting up inside. His omega takes over, slowly but surely, but Grima is still there, choosing again and again. And it feels _good_ , like an ache in a muscle that hasn't been used in a long time. It's as if Frederick is erasing his last heat, replacing it with this one with every brush of his hands.

Frederick is patient and understanding, a barely contained aggression in his muscles like coiled springs. He's too careful, and all at once Grima doesn't want him to hold back. He wants Frederick to surprise him, to move him, to force him to forget all of those slight hesitations. To remember how to be omega, or to learn anew.

Grima pushes the alpha up onto his hands above him, needing focus to say what he wants - he's too distracted by the soft kisses Frederick is planting in a delicate row down his neck and to his shoulder. They are down to just smallclothes, and Grima’s are soaked. Arousal and sweat clings to their bodies, Grima’s omega scent curling and joining with Frederick’s alpha.

“Frederick,” Grima says with a gasp, his heat allowing the words to pour out of him, words that have been lingering in the back of his mind for weeks. “Don't hold back. I need this. I need you.” His thumbs trace the firm line of Frederick’s pectoral muscles, feeling them flex.

Frederick smiles, a half-feral alpha smile that makes Grima’s insides tighten with longing. “I know,” he says, which should make Grima angry. Before he can protest, Frederick continues, “But I want to take it slow.” His eyes flash, daring Grima to argue.

Grima whines wordlessly, but lets Frederick sink down against him again, hands unresisting. He curls his legs around Frederick’s hips and the alpha grinds forward, down against him, so he's aware of every hard inch trapped within the fabric. Grima is distantly aware of his own erection, taut against his smallclothes, but it's a distant need compared to wishing Frederick would hurry up and claim him, already. His nails dig into Frederick’s back, but he allows Frederick to take it as slow as he wants.

This is infinitely better than suffering his heat alone.

“Frederick,” he whispers into the alpha’s neck, because he can't find any other words to express this gratitude. And then Frederick captures his mouth and kisses him hard.

Grima loses all track of time, and only the fire growing within him shows that time does pass.

When Frederick pulls away some unknown time later, he feels cold. He goes to follow that warmth, but a gentle firm hand presses him to the bed. _Stay_. He should fight it, but he submits to that wordless command, enjoys giving in, relinquishing his control. Fingers glide down his sides, to the waistband of his smallclothes, and then the restricting fabric is removed.

He stares up at Frederick, heart sinking, chest aching. The expression on Frederick's face is too intense. Everything is suddenly too exposed, too _much._ “Don't look,” he whispers, self-conscious and embarrassed, a hand moving down to cover himself up.

“Don't hide,” Frederick counters, but his eyes return to Grima’s face. “I want to savor every inch of you.”

Grima shivers. He flicks his tongue across dry lips and tastes Frederick’s desire on the air. He can't fake that - it's real, but Grima can't quite believe it.

Frederick kisses him again, and snakes a hand between them while Grima is distracted. The firm grip on his erection makes him cry out high in the back of his throat, flinging his head back, and Frederick smiles into his neck.

His body feels taut and bright, ready to overflow, and he fights both against it and toward it at the same time. He presses a hand to Frederick’s chest, but the alpha doesn't pull back. His mouth is doing intricate things against Grima’s throat, kissing and almost grazing with teeth, hot and cold breath.

“Frederick, Frederick, please-" Grima begs, nearly insensate with the overwhelming feeling.

“Yes, I will,” Frederick growls, knowing what he is begging for, even as Grima doesn't.

And Frederick’s other hand dances down his leg, to that spot beneath him where he's leaking lubrication. Frederick presses against Grima, and it feels too tight, too much - but then Frederick is inside, one finger and then two, slippery and warm and, in those precious moments, absolutely _perfect_.

Grima arches, a gasp all he can produce, and Frederick pumps his other hand, firm around Grima’s erection. When Frederick coordinates his hands, movements coming together toward his core, Grima tips over that perilous edge.

Power and light and spark fly through his body, sweeping him away, cascading like a waterfall against the rocks beneath.

Grima turns to Frederick’s shoulder and bites down, barely even aware that he's doing it, keening in the back of his throat as the flood of heat and life consumes him.

When Grima returns from his first orgasm in years, he blinks up at Frederick, who is looking down with such a pleased, glowing, proud expression. He's tossing a dirtied handkerchief to the side, but his attention is all for Grima. That smile is beautiful, and Grima reaches up to touch Frederick’s cheek, tracing that curved mouth with a thumb. He wonders if he's snapped, and this is just a dream. But Frederick’s face is firm and warm, and a little prickly from where his stubble lingers after the morning’s shave.

“I don't deserve this,” Grima whispers, an unguarded thought, as if the orgasm has swept away all his pretenses and defenses, a layer of callous stripped away.

“Yes, you do,” Frederick says.

Tears prick Grima’s eyes as Frederick kisses his palm. It is such a delicate move, and such a sweet gesture, but yet somehow Grima _knew_ that Frederick would do it.

Grima regards Frederick as if for the first time, seeing the various scars across his well-formed body, the years of fighting etched into him. Even the wounds from that fated last battle are little more than scars. All except the red angry teeth imprints on Frederick’s shoulder. His hand goes to caress the marks, and Frederick watches him, holding back despite the obvious arousal in his smallclothes.

“I’m _sss_ …” Grima whispers, and then stops. He can't apologize, because if he does everything else will flow out of him, and he's not ready for that. But he wants to, longs to say the words, so Frederick knows. He narrows his eyes at Frederick, caught between two sharp pains, and unwilling to speak either of them aloud.

Frederick’s eyebrows come down once more. “Is this still what you want?”

He thinks Grima hesitates because he doesn't want this, when in fact it's the opposite.

Grima hates that hurt look on Frederick’s face. It makes his stomach clench, and he speaks before he thinks about what might come out. “I want you for as long as you'll have me.”

Frederick sucks in a sharp breath.

The words flush Grima’s skin with warmth. Why did he say that? He doesn't know if Frederick is here for anything other than his heat. Grima wants to look away from Frederick, but he can’t, pinned in place by his embarrassment and impending humiliation and those knowing brown eyes, while his heat burns a slow unwelcome desire that threatens to turn him into basic need.

Frederick’s face relaxes into a soft, tender smile. “A very long time,” he whispers. He doesn't say forever. Forever is permanent. Forever - always - is what he and Chrom promised, all those years ago, the ever-painful lie, for he is still here, and Chrom...

Grima grits his teeth, and pulls Frederick down to him. “Please,” he whispers in the alpha’s ear. _Help me forget._

And Frederick does. The kisses start again, soft and gentle, like cupping hands around an injured bird. He moves along Grima’s neck, breathing deep into that spot that makes Grima cling to him, wordlessly begging for a bite or even a nibble. Frederick licks his neck, a long curl of warmth shooting deep inside. Grima lets out a brazen groan of desire, and curls his fingers tight in the alpha’s brown hair. He knows he smells of unmated omega, and his scent should entice Frederick into biting. But the alpha moves on, leaving just wisps of breath and coiled longing.

“Frederick,” Grima growls at the teasing, need rushing back through him. He's hard again, but the aching emptiness inside demands more attention. It pinches, a dull ache that can only be satisfied by an alpha knot. Frederick rises, hands on either side of Grima’s torso, and looks at him. Grima snakes a hand between their bodies and caresses Frederick’s erection, the layer of fabric not hiding how hard and heavy he hangs. They both moan when he touches it. Grima imagines it inside of him, and his legs tremble with desire.

Frederick moves Grima’s hands away, impatience seeping through his movements now, and strips out of his smallclothes in one long movement. His erection springs free, heavy and full, a thatch of dark hair at the base. His eyes are full of alpha, dangerous and welcoming. Grima’s breath hitches, and he reaches down.

Frederick catches his wrist before he can touch it.

Grima whines. “Please, Frederick.”

Frederick doesn't answer - perhaps he can't - and presses Grima down again. He takes hold of Grima’s knees and slides them apart, alpha oozing off his skin, drawing that roused omega scent out to meet it. Grima squirms, and goes to sit up toward Frederick once more as the alpha hesitates.

“Be still,” Frederick growls, and Grima freezes, obedient as a well-trained dog. Grima thinks he will regret this later, lament how easily he gave in to Frederick, but his omega is ascendant, and it wants to be told what to do. So he relaxes, body humming with anticipation, and watches all the subtle expressions of desire cross Frederick’s face.

Sweat glistens on Frederick’s brow, as if he's burning with Grima’s heat, too. He's magnificent, all muscles and hard lines, and it _hurts_ not to touch him.

“Please,” Grima begs, not caring how a day ago he would rather have gouged his own eyes out, than beg like this. “ _Please_ , Frederick.”

Frederick shivers. He takes hold of Grima’s hips and pulls, and suddenly the head of his erection is pressing right where Grima wants it.

Grima whines, and digs his heels into Frederick’s backside, and Frederick lets out a helpless groan.

With a smooth, confident hip movement, Frederick enters him. It burns at first, but there's more than enough lubrication. Grima forgets everything except for Frederick, his attention focused on every subtle shift as the alpha presses inside. A strand of hair falls into Frederick’s eyes as he leans over him, watchful.

He's big, girthy, which Grima wasn't expecting. It stretches him, fills him, a comfortable ache sinking into his abdomen. What will it feel like when he knots him? Grima trembles at the thought, and stares up at Frederick.

This is overwhelming, but in a good way, the moment and the position perfect. Grima puts one hand against Frederick’s chest, feeling that heart beating loud against him, pumping enough life for both of them, and blinks watery eyes up at Frederick.

Frederick retreats, and then gives a tentative thrust. Grima’s back curves off the bed, throwing a hand out to the side. It's too much and just right, and he's wanted this for a long time. The heat might have pushed him into it, but he would be lying if he declares that a part of him hasn't wanted Frederick in his bed for weeks now. Frederick laces their fingers together, hovering above Grima, eager and wanting himself, but holding back still.

“Frederick,” Grima growls, clutching at that hand around and in between his own. He’s unable to give voice to the need ratcheting up inside of him, can only speak his lover’s name in supplication. Can’t Frederick _feel_ what he wants? “ _Frederick_.”

The alpha grunts, and finds a rhythm, burying his erection deeper inside Grima with every slow thrust. His face hovers above Grima’s, watchful for any signs of displeasure, but he will find none. Warmth burns inside Grima, filling every crevasse and corner, and he swears he can feel Frederick’s body too, an extension of him, freely given.

When Frederick shifts his angle, Grima gasps, sparks flickering in the back of his eyes. He'd forgotten how powerful this could be, how wonderful and complete he feels. It's just the hormones and his heat, but it's also a part of Grima that he's been ignoring for a long time. Frederick pauses, and Grima blinks up at him, a hand curled around the back of the alpha’s neck, thumb tracing hair. They are both breathing hard, both needing this for different reasons, or maybe for the same reason. Frederick looks at him, and smiles, and Grima thinks he would do anything to prove himself worthy of that smile.

Frederick pulls out, leaving Grima feeling empty. A hand pressing on one hip has him rolling over, and before Grima can think, he is on his hands and knees before Frederick.

The old omega habit consumes him. Without even thinking, Grima presents to the alpha behind him - the ultimate submission, and if he were more in his own mind he might balk at this omega behavior. But he feels nothing except desire, the urge to entice Frederick into mating with him in full. He slants his eyes up to Frederick, meeting that hot alpha gaze with heavy challenge.

Frederick lets out a choked sound, eyes flashing, and grabs hold of Grima’s hips. He leans over Grima, deepening the submission, riding him down with hot breath to the blankets. Frederick enters and slides home with one fierce thrust.

Grima whines, eyes open and unseeing, gone on the sensations of his body. Frederick growls, a wild sound, and his earlier slow rhythm is overtaken by something much fiercer.

At this angle, with Grima’s hips still high and his chest pressed to the bed, Frederick’s erection finds that spot within him, thrusting past it with every motion. Grima moans and gasps, body jerking toward and away, straining against the hands gripping him tight, keeping him exactly where the alpha wants him, and exactly where he wants to be.

The orgasm takes Grima by surprise, between one endless thrust and the next. His body flushes with warmth, and he cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. Frederick keeps up that relentless pace, dragging it out of Grima until the tension in his body releases all at once.

It feels languid, delicious, and Grima shivers with the intensity of everything he feels. Frederick’s hot, sweaty body surrounds his, legs and hips and wrists close, circling, protective. Their scents have twined together, smelling different from what Grima remembers, and that combined scent makes him deliriously happy. With every thrust it feels as if Frederick is filling him more, and his omega is welcoming him in. Not just his omega, though - Grima himself wants this, so much it hurts his chest to think of it.

It takes a few seconds before Grima realizes it’s not just his imagination. Frederick is growing larger.

As Frederick slows the pace, his knot expands, called out by Grima’s scent and heat.

Breath sucks sharp between teeth, and Grima hovers in the edge between pain and pleasure. He’d thought Frederick was large before, but now it hurts, and part of him welcomes it. The knot is almost too big, and it breaks a pained sound from his mouth.

Frederick pauses instantly, but Grima whines. “Don't stop.” He presses his hips back, but Frederick grips him tight, holding him still.

Frederick’s breath is hot on his neck, and Grima turns, angling his neck so that Frederick is nosed right into that spot. It tingles, and he imagines Frederick’s soft mouth pressed to his pulse, the sharp prick of teeth...

But the alpha pulls away, jerks back with a soft sound of protest. “I won't force this on you,” he says, sounding angry, but Grima senses that anger isn't directed at him.

“I want this,” Grima hisses, and squeezes around Frederick to emphasize. The alpha’s hips jump, and he lets out a shaky breath. “Bite me.”

“Are you certain?” Frederick’s eyes are bleeding to all pupil, but he still retains his awareness. Grima is gone, but he knows what he wants. It has never been more clear than this moment, with Frederick in his ass and the scent of him slick on his skin.

“As long as you'll have me,” Grima says, and shoots him a look full of challenge and impatience. He'll get it from Frederick one way or another, by alpha pride or omega need. They've come too far now to stop. “ _Bite me_.”

Frederick doesn't need to be told a third time. He slips a gentle hand beneath Grima’s neck and jaw, and leans in, choosing his spot carefully. His breath is cool and deliberate against hot skin, but Grima doesn't rush him, in spite of the heat burning inside, aching for release.

When Frederick bites down, Grima sighs, the urgency shifting away, his body relaxing outside of his control. Teeth dig into the perfect spot on the left side of his neck, the opposite from before. He lets out a soft little moan, eyelashes fluttering, utterly submissive and loving it. Being completely freed from his own control, letting Frederick do this, is so relieving. Tears build up beneath his eyelids, but they are happy tears, and they trail down his cheeks into the mussed blankets, mostly unnoticed.

Mated.

Grima belongs, now, and the wave of omega joy that runs through him is not hard to accept, yet, not with Frederick’s lips gently wrapped around his pulse. Later, perhaps, but in this moment, he accepts it fully.

He puts a shaky hand up to Frederick’s cheek and neck and caresses him lightly.

As if that is a signal, Frederick starts to press in. Grima’s body lets him in, past and through the point of pain, pleasure lighting up his brain like gentle Elthunder. There is no pain, and Frederick grunts happily into Grima’s neck as he moves freely into him. It drags through the sensitive muscle and presses deep inside, full and perfect.

Frederick moans, his hips bucking, and with one more thrust, they are locked together. He releases Grima’s neck, calling out a name that Grima hears and accepts, there in the moment, his heat making everything simple. As Frederick comes inside of him, Grima buries his wet face in the blankets, and cries for everything and nothing.

~*~

Frederick cleans them both up while Grima cries. He can't stop the tears, but Frederick doesn't question them. Grima doesn't know what he can even say to the alpha. Things have changed between them, turned completely around, and he doesn't know how to act now. Old defenses and safeguards have been ripped away, leaving him raw as flayed skin, and every touch hurts. Frederick rolls them onto their sides, and peppers his neck and shoulders with kisses that are both welcome and too much, too close and too personal.

Grima’s tears slow, and then stop, and he runs his fingers over that place where Frederick bit him. It tingles, bright and cherished, sharp counterpoint to the rising panic cutting off his breath.

They are knotted together, but with the heat temporarily satisfied, Grima can think again. There are entirely too many thoughts in his head, and none of them good. Try as hard as he can, Grima cannot explain why Frederick is doing this, why they are knotted together. What does _he_ get out of this? Grima is broken, angry, and was quite terrible to Frederick for so long. There’s nothing good in Grima that the other alpha cannot get anywhere else, easier and with less suffering.

Frederick will pull away, come to his senses. Every second is borrowed, stolen time. He's going to leave.

_Maybe I should send him away, before he leaves_.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Frederick whispers into his neck.

Grima freezes, breath caught in his throat.

“Look at me,” Frederick says when he hesitates, only a bit of alpha grit in his tone. Grima eyes him from the corner of one eye, hesitant, almost afraid of what he will see. Frederick stares back, resting his cheek against Grima’s shoulder.

“I care for you, and I want to look after you,” Frederick says. When he smiles, it is hard to behold, a bright happy something like a hound puppy wagging its tail.

Directed at Grima… he cannot understand it. It is a foreign concept, oil to the water of his mind. How could anyone care for him… or love him? He's Grima.

Frederick’s large arms wrap around Grima, pulling him in close. Protective, confident alpha scent gathers around them. Impulsively, Grima grasps one of his wrists and brings it to his nose, then breathes deep of that powerful alpha scent. Linen, and smoke… Frederick.

“I think there is more inside of you than you even know.”  

This feels even better than that stolen moment of obeisance, with Frederick in the chair and Grima on his knees. That knot deep inside, satisfying the craving and desire, and the warmth of their naked bodies pressed together, is nearly perfect.

Can he let himself enjoy it?

The tightness within him is subsiding, as Frederick’s knot lessens. This should be a brief calm before another surge of heat, but Grima can't relax his mind, still cannot accept this fully. He clenches around Frederick, who twitches and sighs deep into his neck.

Grima reaches back to cup Frederick’s cheek with his bared right hand, and Frederick turns to kiss it.

He watches for a few moments as Frederick’s mouth presses into his skin. For some reason the sight makes his chest light, and he feels like he could float away if not for Frederick’s arms.

But then he sees them - the ugly marks crossing his right wrist, where he cut himself. Frederick’s mouth grazes intentionally against them, eyes soft and half-lidded, watching Grima knowingly.

Pure panic races through Grima. _He knows._ He jerks his hand away, breathing hard and too fast. When he folds his hand into a fist, the purple mark stares up at both of them, _judging_... His satisfied omega scent is lessened by the reek of terror.

Grima tries to get away, but the knot slows him. It pops free, and Frederick gives a soft exclamation at the sudden separation.

Before Grima can clear the bed, bolt to the bathroom, Frederick takes hold of him, and pulls him back.

It hurts, physically and emotionally, knowing that Frederick has just seen this manifestation, and he didn't mean for him to see. Grima doesn’t even remember when his vambrace came off, this damnable heat making everything hazy.

“Shh, relax,” the alpha whispers. “It's all right… I understand.” And Frederick tucks Grima’s tense arm up against his body.

He _knows_ what those marks mean. Surely Frederick will reprimand Grima, or tell him it was wrong. And then he will leave.

But he only whispers reassurances into his neck and shoulders, holding on as Grima squirms.

The fight leaves Grima all at once, and a weighty disgust sinks in. Frederick deserves better than this, better than a half-omega like Grima, who is only alive because he’s too cowardly to rid the world of himself.

“I'm not going anywhere.” Frederick says, and kisses his neck, right where he bit him. A wave of contentment shoots through Grima, at odds with his palpable self-hatred.

It's too much, and Grima trembles. He needs to let some of this out or it will rip him apart from the inside. “You should,” he gasps, glancing back over his shoulder to the alpha. “You should stay away from me. I'm dangerous - damaged, broken - I killed everyone - I maimed Morgan, hunted Lucina, and killed my last mate and I can't risk you too… Please...” His eyes swim, and he curls his legs up close to his body, unable to get away from this sudden, unexpected pain. He covers his eyes with his hands. _Please, help me_ , he thinks, unable to voice anything else.

But Frederick, again, seems to know what he needs.

His hand is soft on Grima’s shoulder. “I don't want to leave you. And I know you won't hurt me.”

That's a lot of trust, and Grima just shakes his head. Grima himself doesn’t even believe that. He could hurt Frederick. He doesn’t want to, but he could. It is his nature, to hurt everything he loves and holds most dear.

Frederick continues, his deep voice soft. “You could have killed me any of the times you found me sleeping in my chair.”

Grima closes his eyes, and remembers fingers against his throat, the way he submitted to that touch for a few precious instants, instead of fighting. How it had felt natural, like rubbing with the grain of fur, instead of constantly against it.

“You could have hurt me with the fork… but you didn’t then.”

The fork. The humiliation, at being unable to hurt Frederick… but also, deep within, relief.

“The only way you continue to hurt me is by pulling away. _I_ _want this_ ,” Frederick says, giving Grima a little squeeze with each word. And then he relaxes his hold, turning Grima toward him, onto his back.

“ _Why_?” Grima finally asks, a question from the depths of his scarred soul.

“Because I care for you,” Frederick says, his eyes rounded and soft at the edges. It takes Grima a few moments to realize what that look means. It reminds him of the way Chrom used to look at him, as if he were the most important person in his world. Does Frederick... truly feel that way? Grima doesn't see any deception in the alpha’s eyes, even as he searches for it.

Frederick continues, “I know what you did, and maybe six months ago I would have wished for you to die, but now… I want you to live. I believe in second chances… Rob.”

“Rob…” Grima stares at him. Frederick touches his cheek, and he curls into it, allowing the scent to calm him.

Rob… His mind turns it over, not rejecting it out of hand.

Not Robin… Rob. Still close. But not exact.

Maybe Frederick is right… maybe Grima won't hurt him, if not because he cannot, because he doesn't _want_ to.

Can he be Rob?

“Yes.”

The word eases out from deep inside, and he smiles - a genuine smile, not a disguised grimace or agitated sneer.

Frederick smiles back, bright like sunshine, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, that was my favorite chapter to write so far! The next chapter should be up by the end of September, if not sooner. I've got about half of it written. (Featuring a scene from Frederick's POV!) 
> 
> I wanted to clarify that Frederick has decided that he doesn't want to address the self-harm now, while Grima is obviously stressed and uncomfortable. But he will address it at some point in the next couple of chapters. He's not okay with Grima doing this, but he knows that Grima already feels uncomfortable about it, and he wants to wait until after Grima's heat to address it. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

Morning comes, and Frederick watches the soft golden light creep onto his mate, curled up against him. The scars on his cheeks are hidden in Frederick’s shadow, and his whitish hair is turned spun gold by the sun. One leg lays over Frederick’s, foot pressed against his calf.

Rob lies peaceful, and still, unburdened by everything that usually plagues him.

 _I did this_ , Frederick thinks, hand soft against Rob’s bare shoulder so as not to wake him. _I helped him relax, and he let me._

Frederick’s body aches from a long night well-spent. It wouldn't be the first night he's gone without sleep, but he's never spent the time so… amorously before. Not like this. Rob’s need is undiminished, both physically and emotionally, and Frederick wants to provide everything for him. This is but a brief pause, between one wave of desire and the next.

For now, his omega sleeps, and Frederick watches over him, amazed and strangely content.

 _My omega_ …

Frederick can't recall the exact moment his feelings turned from hatred to pity, and eventually into understanding and care. At some point, he simply knew there was more of Robin than Grima in him - a damaged and desperate Robin, but one that deserved more than he allowed himself. Frederick couldn’t just stand by and watch him destroy what was left.

So Frederick had tried to bring Rob back to himself, while remaining distant. Over the months together, Frederick had noticed Rob’s reactions swing closer to him, like a compass needle coming to true north. He hadn’t been sure, at first, if Rob was simply reacting to his alpha presence, or if he felt something for _Frederick_ , specifically. Attraction simmered between them, sometimes, and other times it was as cold and dead as Feroxi winter. Rob was miserable as an omega, and Frederick could do little to help with that - it was something Rob had to come to terms with on his own. All Frederick could do was be there, waiting for an opportunity.

It hadn’t been easy. Frederick had held back a few times, before his rut. It physically hurt him to observe as Rob bared some of his humanity, only for it to be thrown back in his face, or snatched away and buried once more. When Rob sank into dark moods, there was little Frederick could do - Rob resisted even the hint of pity, and bristled with anger and distrust if Frederick tried to offer support.

So Frederick had waited, gently coaxing as much as he could, prodding at his edges and withstanding the fury thrown in desperation.

Rob had to be willing, had to open up to him. It had happened in stages, two steps forward, one step back, an elaborate dance between them. If Frederick let his alpha instincts take over, Rob would have fought back. Frederick could have forced him to submit - in the heat of the moment, nothing would have pleased his alpha more… but Rob’s sanity would not have survived that conflict.

So Frederick had watched, and learned, every passing conflict revealing more of how Rob’s mind worked. And he still held back.

Until his rut.

His rut came on suddenly and without warning. Frederick was dragged out of sleep with shocking insistence, contrary to every other rut he’s had since he into his alpha strength.

Frederick had barely been able to tolerate a servant’s presence long enough to send a message to Robin, and to find someone to look after Rob in his stead.

He also couldn't keep himself from craving a partner’s warmth - one partner, in particular.

Rob’s hair is a little sweaty, but soft, and Frederick runs his fingers through. The movement coaxes a soft little sound, gentle and tender, from Rob’s throat. Frederick smiles, his throat growing tight.

He almost can’t believe that in the span of twelve hours, they had come from avoiding each other - to this.

The last week had been miserable, and Frederick had experienced a loneliness that hurt all the more for the suddenness of the break. Robin had told him that Rob just needed space and a little time to figure out what he wanted. Frederick was willing to wait. But, as the days passed and Rob didn't seek him out, he doubted, and grew agitated.

After the feast, he'd found his way here, tracking something within Rob that had called to him. Perhaps his alpha had seen heat in the omega’s sudden departure, or perhaps it had just been kismet. Frederick had been ready to plead his case, to convince Rob that he deserved a second chance. He’d been ready to reveal his feelings for Rob, but had no idea how that would go.

He hadn't expected Rob to be in heat… or to ask him for help, to let him in so completely.

Frederick’s hand brushes over the mate mark on Rob’s neck, and feels a pulse of sensation from his own mark. Frederick knows it was the right choice - the _only_ choice - to let Rob bite him, and to bite him in return. They are mated in full, now. The marks are concrete, and will linger after the heat’s passion has faded. It was the only way to prove his true feelings to Rob.

Now that he has him, he doesn’t want to let him go again.

Something is changed in Rob, a welcome shift that Frederick hopes will linger after the heat is gone. And this calm is proof of it.

Rob shifts, and curls an arm around Frederick’s knee, rubbing his cheek against Frederick’s hip. Frederick’s body stiffens, reacting to that touch. He wants Rob to wake so they can continue, but the omega needs his rest. They have a long way to go before he’s through this heat.

In the silence, there’s a soft sound in the outer room, the hall door opening. Frederick has been expecting this, but despite knowing who the visitor likely is, he stiffens. Any interruption of their mating is an unwelcome one.

Frederick draws the sheet over Rob’s shoulders, and gathers it into his own lap, hiding his nakedness. He settles upright into the pillows, and Rob nestles closer. He snores, the change of position pressing his nose into the pillows, and Frederick smiles down at him.

There’s a soft knock at the bedroom door. It opens quietly.

Frederick remains where he sits. He’s not used to anyone seeing him in such a state of undress, but he’s not ashamed. Frederick is defending his mate’s honor, and the sanctuary of his bed. He also doesn’t want to pull away from the furnace of Rob’s skin, knowing it will likely wake him.

“Frederick?” Robin stands just inside the door, blinking in surprise - and then a smile bursts across his face. “Good,” he whispers, taking in the bed and its occupants. “I’d hoped…” He wisely stops that sentence, likely sensing Frederick’s heavy stare. “The guard reported to me at the first scent of his heat this morning.”

Robin comes forward and places a tray of food on the nightstand, which Frederick accepts with a murmured “Thank you.”

Robin peers down at Rob across Frederick, a faint, worried smile lingering on his features. “How is he?”

“He’s strong,” Frederick says, and touches Rob’s hair again.

Robin freezes, eyes caught on Frederick’s neck. “You… let him bite you…”

Frederick touches the mate mark, a little unnerved by Robin’s reaction. A growl blooms in his chest but he swallows it down. He wears this mark more proudly than all the medals given him for his continued place in the exalt’s service. “I did,” he says, his tone a cold warning.

“Has he… changed?” Robin’s voice is soft, deliberately so.

“Changed?” Frederick echoes, eyes narrowing. He’s not liking this line of questioning.

Robin glances to the side. “We were worried that he would… harm whatever alpha tried to mate him.”

“He would never hurt me,” Frederick hisses, ignoring the angry red love bite on his shoulder, made in passion, not destruction. “Not like that. He’s not going to turn back.” Rob stirs at the angry hiss in his voice. Frederick brushes his hair again, and he stills.

“Frederick,” Robin whispers seriously, and shifts from foot to foot. “You don’t have to do this.”

The growl escapes this time, startling both of them. Robin takes a subconscious half-step back.

“I’m not doing this out of pity,” Frederick snarls. “I care a great deal for him - and he needs me.” He jabs a finger toward his mate mark. “I _chose_ this.”

Robin deliberately steps close again, and studies Rob. Some pain eases away from his face. “I just want to make sure you will both survive this,” he says. “If it were up to Chrom, he would pull you apart in an instant. He doesn't know, yet... I don't know if I can keep this from him.”

A cold fury burns in Frederick’s body, and he growls, defiant and loud.

Frederick knows how close Chrom came to killing Rob, during that final fight. Were it not for that hesitation, it could have ended in ruin. Frederick had also seen firsthand the way Grima had begged for Chrom, once he’d bitten him, and he does _not_ want to see this again.

Rob is not Chrom’s - not anymore.

“He'll have to pry my dead body away,” Frederick says, hand gripping Rob’s shoulder.

Robin takes a full step back now, eyes wide.

“Frederick…?” Rob crawls into Frederick's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. He’s… comforting Frederick, half-awake as he is.

Blood rushes into Frederick’s groin, the feel of Rob slick against him bringing his erection back to life.

Rob’s face is hot, burning with desire against Frederick’s skin.

Rob exhales slow, and then raises his head. He looks up at Robin without any shame or humiliation.

“Please, keep him away,” he says.

Frederick realizes that Rob was aware of Robin’s presence this whole time, and still crawled on top of him. Asserting his claim, perhaps? Frederick’s chest warms with the notion that Rob would feel so much toward him. This unexpected demonstration shifts Frederick’s anger away, breaking it down into more manageable pieces. His hands circle Rob’s waist of their own volition.

In response, Rob grinds against Frederick with a little groan, losing himself to his heat for an instant.

He returns, pinning Robin with a hard look, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don't want to see him… Chrom…” Rob gives a shudder that has nothing to do with desire, and Frederick holds him close. “...Like this. It will… hurt me.”

Robin’s eyebrows come together, and he nods. He sits on the bed beside them and takes Rob’s hand.

That soothing omega scent works its magic on both of them. Rob tenses, and then relaxes, and Frederick can feel the urgency drift away, momentarily held at bay. Rob draws Robin’s hand close and breathes in the scent from his wrist, eyes fluttering shut.

Frederick feels completely superfluous, and if Rob weren’t straddling his lap, he would shift out of the way, let them have this moment in privacy. Robin has always had Rob’s best interests at heart, and it is clear here, in the way they regard each other, that Rob feels something for him too. Like brothers, perhaps, twins who know exactly what the other is thinking. Brothers who can hurt each other deeper than anyone else, but choose not to.

If Robin is surprised by Rob’s docile behavior, he doesn’t show it. He touches Rob’s cheek. “I'll keep him away,” he promises.

Frederick relaxes at this, tension ebbing out of him. He recalls Robin’s first heat, over three years ago, and how close they had come to mating in Chrom’s absence. Robin had smelled of Chrom, and that was the one thing that had stopped Frederick from doing as they both wanted.

Frederick buries his face in Rob’s neck, savoring the scent of sweat and omega curling up around them both. Now, _Rob_ smells like home, in a way Robin never did.

It’s in everyone’s best interest that Chrom stays away.

Rob’s full attention returns to Frederick. He releases Robin, gives a little whine, and tugs at Frederick’s neck. Frederick rises to meet his eager mouth.

Distantly, he hears the door close, and gives all his focus to mating Rob once more.

 ~*~

 Grima drifts to wakefulness, suddenly aware that he is sore. Satisfied and content - but sore.

There’s a rhythmic sound behind him, rumbling through his body.

His body is completely boneless, vibrating with that sound. He is lying on his stomach, a pleasant weight at his back, warmth and ache bundled together in his lower half. It feels… right, like that second of dream when it suddenly clicks into place. The dream becomes reality, an opaque glass shifting clear.

Frederick.

It's Frederick behind him, Frederick’s mark he wears on his neck, Frederick who mated him through his heat.

Grima finds energy somewhere to turn toward that warmth, toward Frederick. Frederick shifts off to the side, an arm still draped across Grima’s back. He studies that familiar, sleeping face. It looks as he remembers it, relaxed, peaceful. Frederick snores, but it's a pleasant sound, reminding Grima that he lives, still. He mated Grima, and survived.

Grima doesn't stop moving until he looks at Frederick, full on, without the heat blurring his memories. He's gloriously naked, and every bit the alpha Grima hoped he would be, under his clothing. His cheek is rough with stubble, but Grima caresses it anyway, exploring it anew, even as faint memories of that cheek brushing all over his body rush in. Frederick had been quite… thorough.

Frederick stirs, and his hand brushes casually across Grima’s side. Grima shivers beneath that touch.

“Ah,” Frederick says, brown eyes creasing open. “Good morning.”

And he smiles into Grima’s palm. The rough bite mark comes into view, bold against his neck.

Grima jerks his hand back as if burned. _Frederick is still in my bed… why is he still here? Can I get him out?_

And, above all the other thoughts: _Can I make him stay?_

Frederick’s smile falters.

The pristine image of Frederick blurs. Grima squeezes his eyes closed, willing him to disappear. If he doesn't see Frederick leaving, it won't hurt as much. There’s a whine growing inside of him, frantic and feral.

“Shh-shh-shh,” Frederick whispers. “It’s okay.” And he curls around Grima, drawing him into his neck. Grima clings to him, going hot and then cold. He and Frederick… did everything together. Even mated, in full. Frederick asked Grima to bite him back. He didn’t have to… the bond wouldn’t have been sealed, and the marks would have faded. Frederick wouldn’t be tied to him, the anchor dragging him down.

Grima sucks in a sharp breath, and tension eases off. That awful noise stops. Each breath of Frederick’s alpha scent calms him a little more. It smells better than he remembers, almost indescribable now. The brush of fingers against his skin is soothing.

Frederick pulls back, far enough to look him in the eye. “How are you feeling?”

Grima doesn't know how to answer. He stares at Frederick, who waits without reproach for a response. Finally, he just shakes his head, and buries his face in Frederick’s warm neck once more.

Frederick doesn’t hold him to an answer. He rolls onto his back, drawing Grima and the sheets with him. Grima’s hand rests on Frederick’s chest, seeking out that heartbeat.

“Did I… hurt you?” Frederick whispers, after a time.

“No,” Grima answers, and sucks in that scent. And, after a few moments: “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Frederick says, a smile rumbling in his chest just below Grima’s cheek, resonant through his body.

This feels so strange.

Frederick doesn’t go anywhere, and Grima grows more and more uncertain with every beat of the heart beneath his palm. Maybe… he doesn’t want to leave. _The pleasure was mine_. So he enjoyed mating with Grima, dominating him. Snippets of his own reaction to Frederick return, and when he ducks his head back beneath Frederick’s jaw, it is to hide his face.

He begged Frederick, multiple times - debased himself to the alpha. The things they did… the things Grima _said -_ He should hate what happened, resent that Frederick did this to him. But he doesn’t. These bright, resonant memories make him soft and gooey.

_Weak._

How is he supposed to act with Frederick, now? Things cannot go back to normal between them. He can’t remember what normal felt like.

He curls his exposed wrist to his chest, recalling the way Frederick kissed those wounds, as if they were precious to him. Grima bites down a whimper, but it still escapes.

“You’re shaking,” Frederick whispers. “Are you cold?”

Silence.

“What’s wrong, Rob?”

Grima pushes himself up and stares down at Frederick, lying there surrounded by his pillows, in _his_ bed. If Frederick sitting on his bed was an invasion, this is a conquest, total and absolute. Grima clenches his hand in the pillowcase beside Frederick’s neck, and watches that larynx bob. He remembers kissing it, licking it, biting-- “I don’t know what to do,” he blurts.

Frederick brushes a hand through Grima’s hair, sweeping it back and letting it fall forward again. Grima’s eyes close and his mouth parts, and a soft sigh escapes.

“Talk to me,” Frederick suggests. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Frederick is serious, the depths of his brown eyes clear and true.

“I - I should be angry,” Grima says. A safer topic.

“Angry? With me?”

Grima looks away. “I’m not, though. You helped me… and you didn’t have to.” The words come out easier than he expected.

“I wanted to,” Frederick says, and runs his hand through Grima’s hair again.

Grima draws in a breath, and spits out this sharp finality that aches in his chest. “When are you going to leave?”

Frederick stiffens, and his scent sharpens. His hand pauses in Grima’s hair. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Grima doesn’t hesitate.

“Rob… can I stay here, with you?”

Grima looks up at Frederick, but there’s no mocking, no laughter hidden in his expression. The alpha touches Grima’s face, rubbing delicate fingertips against the creases between his eyebrows, until he’s forced to relax them.

“Can I stay?” Frederick repeats, his voice gone soft and breathy.

Grima blinks a few times. He… means it. If this is real… if Frederick is really offering, then he can’t let this slip away.

He exhales all at once. “Yes.” He puts his hand back to Frederick’s stubbled cheek. “Yes, Frederick, _please_ stay.”

Frederick makes a happy sound in his throat, and kisses him. His mouth is soft and inviting, coaxing Grima’s tongue out to meet his. The urgency of his heat is gone, but it feels, if possible, more intense. There’s nothing bringing them together except the two of them.

 _He’s kissing me_ , Grima thinks, and then stops thinking.

Frederick breaks them apart gently, and rests their noses and foreheads together. Grima can tell he’s smiling just from his eyes. Grima puts a hand on that expanse of bare chest, aware that they are both breathing fast.

“We should eat something,” Frederick says.

Grima nods, all too glad to turn Frederick’s attention elsewhere, at least for the moment. His stomach is still in knots, but he supposes that during his heat, he didn’t eat much of anything. He lets Frederick sit them both upright, dragging the blankets with them. Frederick makes a big deal out of making certain he is warm enough, which Grima doesn’t know how to react to. It’s… sweet, and very Frederick. Part of Grima wants to throw the blankets aside and storm off… but they are both naked, and he doesn’t want to expose his body to Frederick’s eyes. Not yet. He’s not brave enough for that.

There’s a covered platter on the nightstand, and Grima has no idea how it got there. It is different from the one Robin brought them. Grima swallows, frustrated that his heat left him so unaware of his surroundings. If he doesn’t notice something, he likes it to be because he chooses to ignore it.

Frederick plucks a piece of bread and offers it to Grima. He takes it from Frederick’s palm with delicate fingers. Part of him wants to nibble right from the alpha’s hand, but he resists. He remembers doing just that, during his heat, and his body flushes with embarrassment. Frederick must recall it too, but he says nothing as they break their fast.

Frederick’s body is warm, and Grima relaxes against it a bit at a time. There’s intimacy between them, as they eat and drink, completely naked, but Grima also senses a distance. He’s pretty sure he put it there, but he doesn’t know what to do to address it. Maybe… it’s for the best. Frederick will come to his senses at some point. He must.

Nothing good that Grima has ever had… has lasted.

This too will end.

But he will fight for it.

After they’ve polished off every scrap of food on the plate, Frederick turns to Grima, who is leaning against the alpha’s shoulder, eyes drooping closed. With a stomach full of food and the warmth emanating from Frederick’s body, it is hard to resist the pull of sleep. He’d gotten precious little of it during the last few days.

“Shall we rest some more?” Frederick whispers against his hair.

Grima nods, wanting nothing more than to curl up with Frederick… forever. _For as long as you’ll have me_ , he’d told Frederick, and he means it still. 

~*~

He and Frederick sit on the couch, fully dressed, later that afternoon. Frederick has a fire burning bright and hot in the hearth, allowing Grima to go without his cloak. Grima knows that Frederick did this purposefully. He has been attentive to Grima’s needs for a long time, and Grima suspects - hopes - this won’t change, now that they’ve… mated.

Mated. He never expected to think that word again, to apply it to himself. It doesn't feel that bad, curled up near Frederick's warmth. 

Frederick’s arm is draped across his shoulders, his attention absorbed in his book. His fingers absently rub against Grima’s bare arm below the bolero jacket’s sleeve. That touch is enough to thoroughly distract Grima from his own reading.

He stares at the same five words on the page until they swim, and steals sidelong glances at Frederick as often as he can. The alpha is completely relaxed. He smells… different from before. If possible, Frederick smells even _better_. Their scents have blended together, telling everyone that they are mated. Frederick chose this, the blending of their scents, Grima’s mark on his neck.

Unnoticed, Grima studies Frederick, leaning gradually closer. Through the fabric between them, Grima can feel Frederick’s breathing, in and out, a soothing rhythm. His book slides off his knees to the couch beside him.

The casual way they touch each other is part of the bonding process. Grima remembers spending a few lazy days with Chrom, after that first heat, just cuddling in idyllic pleasure. Strange moments return to him from that time - Chrom’s mouth, twisted in displeasure when his duty encroached on their sanctuary - the way they made lazy love, that last night before resuming their duties. In the morning, Chrom buried his face in Grima’s neck, breathing in so hard Grima was certain he would pass out, “just to take your scent with me.”

He and Frederick aren’t making any memories like that. Grima doesn't have it in him, anymore. He takes comfort in simply sitting beside Frederick, enjoying his presence.

Grima feels a strange movement on his mouth, and has to touch it before he realizes... he’s smiling.

Frederick has made him weak… but where there should be anger and frustration, he only feels a wave of satisfaction, and deeper, a voiceless discontent.

He glances up at Frederick. The alpha is smiling back.

After a surprised moment, Grima relaxes under Frederick’s arm, allowing the alpha to draw him closer. Grima presses his cheek to that chest and listens to his heart beating. For a few moments he sits there, curled against Frederick, the silence in his thoughts lulling him into relaxation.

He’s about to fall asleep when something jerks him out of it.

 _He comes_ , the warning voice hisses.

Grima sits upright, eyes suddenly wide, and Frederick’s arm falls behind him. Frederick glances his way, more curious than anything else. Doesn’t he sense the approach? Perhaps Grima should take Frederick into the bedroom--

The door bursts open.

Aside from a servant or two, and Robin’s single visit, nobody has disturbed them since Grima’s heat started. Grima reacts without thinking, without questioning who would enter their rooms like this.

He leaps to his feet and stands in front of Frederick, drawing the little knife from the pocket of his cloak, discarded over the arm of the couch. Grima grits his teeth, muscles tense and ready to attack -

Chrom storms into the room, coming right for him.

Grima freezes. He isn’t ready for those piercing blue eyes turned against him, that familiar jawline. He will never be ready for him - something in his chest sputters and cracks as Chrom comes close. Grima’s hand moves up to his neck, feeling for a mate mark long since faded. Frederick’s mark suddenly burns on his other side, and he scratches at it.

Chrom stops before Grima.

His agitated alpha scent sweeps out around Grima like a blanket, and Grima moves on impulse. His omega is too close to the surface, coming down from the effects of his heat. It’s the only reason he can think to explain what he does next.

Grima tilts his head, offering up his neck to Chrom, a basic omega move to de-escalate such a situation. Part of him is startled by this, surprised into silence. He’s also horrified, for he _knows_ his current mate is immediately behind him. But this feels right, and natural, this urge to submit to Chrom, even as his body trembles with how wrong it is.

If Chrom were still his mate…

Chrom pauses, and leans in, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. Are you…” And then he takes another step closer, drawing in a deep breath of Grima’s scent.

Grima lets out a low sound, and his hand tightens on the knife. He’s not sure if he wants to let Chrom bite him… or if he wants to strike out. Both, perhaps, and neither.

A warm hand catches Grima’s shoulder and tugs him back, stealing that dichotomy from him. He smells linen and fire, and something faintly floral, and his traitorous body relaxes and lets Frederick take over. Frederick pulls Grima close, and he goes unresisting.

Chrom growls, and Frederick answers, the opposing sounds rippling through Grima’s body.

“You should have notified me he was in heat. You had no right to do this without my permission,” Chrom snarls, betrayal burning bright in every word. Even though he’s not looking at Grima, the strength of his thwarted desire and fury are clear. “I should have been here! You… you could have been hurt, Frederick.”

Grima blinks suddenly blurry eyes. _I should have been here._ The Exalt… would have helped him? He only thought of that possibility once, back in the great hall, and it never crossed his mind again. This is not his Chrom, his mate, the father of his children, no matter how much he looks and acts like him. An imposter, a strange twin, who mimics every mannerism, but his presence still feels off.

If the Exalt had helped him through his heat, though… Grima trembles, and Frederick draws him closer.

A rose-tinted blindfold falls away from his eyes, as everything is suddenly made clear.

 _I should have been here_ , Chrom said.

Grima would have begged Chrom to mate him. There’s no doubt in his mind that if forced to choose between the two alphas - he would have chosen Chrom.

It would have been… terrible when he came out of it, to wake beside this Chrom and remember _his_ Chrom. And to know that he'd taken something from Robin, that he'd ruined those lives he'd been fighting to protect. That hesitation, the strongest choice he's ever made since becoming the god and shedding his humanity, could have been for nothing.

His omega wishes it had been Chrom, not Frederick.

Grima makes a distressed sound, curling his fingers into Frederick’s shirt and burying his face in it.

 _You don’t deserve to be happy_ , the voice whispers.

Frederick’s hand is surprisingly gentle on Grima’s shoulder, but he doesn’t want gentle. He wants Frederick to bite him again, to take away every memory, good and bad, one by one.

He wants Chrom to drag him away from Frederick, to pin him to the wall and reclaim him.

“He didn't hurt me,” Frederick says, the words calm and relaxed, rumbling through Grima’s skull. He clings to Frederick’s words, letting them counter the darkness swirling through his body and mind.

Grima mated with Frederick, not Chrom. He chose to let Frederick help him, and that has to count for something.

Frederick continues, “I knew, because of our interactions. I knew as soon as I smelled his heat that he wouldn’t harm me. He might have chosen-”

Chrom interrupts. “I wasn't going to let his heat end the way it did before.” He sounds angry, but not with Frederick.

“In doing so, you would have hurt him. Don't you see how he reacts to you? You, of everyone here, he's loved and watched die.”

Grima is shaking badly now, and keeps his face tucked in to Frederick’s body, so he doesn't have to see Chrom's expression.

 _So cowardly_.

Frederick continues, “Being with you like that would have hurt him.”

It hurts, distantly, like a healing bruise, hearing Frederick speak of him like this, as if he isn't there. If not for the strong arm around him, he would bolt for the safety of his bed.

“I… I didn't think…” Chrom’s voice is soft and uncertain.

In spite of the turmoil inside, Grima looks up.

Chrom has his head in his hands, and is gripping his hair in a familiar gesture.

Grima’s feet move to take him forward, to Chrom, to ease this anguish. Frederick holds on tight, keeping him in place.

Chrom continues to speak, squeezing his eyes shut. “You're right. I… this feels like a betrayal… like my own mate has chosen someone else.”

“Your own mate is standing right here.” Robin is behind Chrom, standing in the open doorway. Chrom turns toward him, and Grima feels a fresh stab of pain, watching the mated couple. Robin stands straight and tall, and addresses Chrom. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this, Chrom. I’m sorry.”

“Robin…” Chrom whispers, and goes to him.

With every step away, Grima feels something tugging tighter and tighter inside. _This is betrayal_ , he thinks, and for some reason he wants to laugh.

Robin raises his hand and caresses Chrom’s cheek, and Grima closes his eyes against the tenderness between them. But he can’t stop himself from hearing Chrom’s muttered, “Thank you.”

Frederick moves, shifting so that Grima is turned toward him. Can he see, in Grima’s face, how much he wishes it were him comforting Chrom? Frederick doesn’t deserve this, but Grima doesn’t know how to stop feeling like this. Chrom was his everything, and seeing this constant reminder of the life he could have had… is worse, even, than seeing Morgan’s scarred face, or Lucina’s fury.

Grima pushes Frederick away, pressing his hands against that broad, warm chest. He doesn’t want to be comforted or coddled. He wants…

Grima doesn’t know what he wants.

 _Take it back_ , the voice suggests. Grima doesn’t understand what it means, but the words propel him nonetheless.

He takes one step away, and then another. Then he turns and retreats to his bedroom, closing out Robin, and Chrom… and Frederick.

Grima finds himself curled on the bed again, tugging his knees tight into his chest. He can hear the voices, in the next room, but he cannot hear what they say. He’s grateful for that. He doesn’t want to know how they discuss him, to hear Frederick’s piteous tones… or to know his disappointment.

He’s not crying, but it feels like he should be. His body trembles, and he buries his face in the pillow.

Frederick follows, shortly after.

Grima doesn’t look up at him, but when Frederick leans over him and puts a hand on the bed, Grima grabs it and holds on tight.

“I… miss him,” Grima whispers. “Every day, I miss him.” He doesn’t know quite how to explain it to Frederick, this volume of never-ending loss.

“I know,” Frederick says, and sits on the bed with him. “He was your mate. I don’t want you to stop missing him.”

Grima’s eyes fly open, and he comes up onto his elbow. He needs to see this, to see Frederick’s face. “You really mean that…?”

“Of course I do.” Frederick’s eyebrows come together, but not in condemnation. “Rob, I know you were mated before. I will never expect or ask you to forget him.”

A hot tear slips from Grima’s eyes and along his nose. Frederick reaches out and wipes it away with a gentle thumb.

“Frederick…” Grima whispers, and moves into his alpha’s waiting arms. With Frederick holding him, the pain doesn’t sink quite as deep. It's still there, of course, but it lacks that heavy sensation, no longer a mortal wound, but one that might, someday, scar over. “Frederick,” he mutters into his shirt, and it really means, _Thank you_.

Frederick makes a soft sound. His arms around Grima tighten to the right amount of pressure, too gentle to hurt, but strong enough that Grima feels like Frederick might just be keeping him together.

 _Don’t let go_ , Grima thinks, or maybe he says it aloud, for Frederick holds him until the trembling fades and his tears have gone, and a good while longer than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay on this chapter... Life got really busy, and then one of my cats got sick unexpectedly last month and I didn’t feel like writing much of anything. That scene from Frederick’s POV took way longer to edit than I thought it would. It just wasn’t right and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it, so it took a LOT of rewriting to get it to a point where I’m happy with it. 
> 
> I don’t have an estimate for when the next chapter will be posted, although I’ve got a few scenes drafted. You may have noticed I upped the chapter count from 10 to 11... There’s going to be another NSFW section, as well… Hmm this story just keeps growing. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading and leaving such nice comments! I sometimes have a hard time responding to the comments, but they really make my day. :) I hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Grima perches on the edge of the marble sink, one knee clutched to his chest. From the corner of his eye he watches Frederick lean into the mirror. The thin leather string folds under Frederick’s agile fingers as he laces his collar closed.

_Don't go,_  Grima wants to say. Frederick will probably listen if he asks. But he bites his tongue on the words. His bare heel thumps against the cabinet, tapping out the slow, voiceless panic wrapped tight in his chest.

Frederick finishes the bow and sighs, shoulders coming forward. Grima drops his leg to reach out, but then hesitates, hand stretched halfway between them. With an effort, he pushes it forward, aware that he is trembling. Frederick’s shoulder is warm beneath his cold hand, warm through the fabric of his button-down. The alpha immediately moves closer, as if that touch is permission, his thigh pressed against Grima’s dangling knees.

“Are you certain you will be alright?” Frederick asks. “I don't have to do this today.”

He makes it so hard.

Grima glances down to his vest. “You should leave.” He forces his hand to loosen on the alpha’s bicep, but can’t quite stop touching him.

Frederick doesn’t respond, and lets the silence grow. In the week since Grima’s heat, Frederick has been doing that more and more. They both know that if the silence lingers long enough, Grima will speak. He hates this admission, hates that Frederick has learned him so well… but at the same time, there’s a comfort in it.

The silence mounts between them, until Grima squirms on the hard marble. “I don't want you to go.”

“Then I won't,” Frederick says, thigh still warm and solid against the outside of Grima’s knee. “I'll just send someone to let Robin and--”

“That's not…” Grima cuts him off before he says that next word. Frederick doesn’t hesitate, and doesn’t back down, no matter how he knows certain names upset Grima. He acknowledges that Grima still misses… _him_. But he wants to know more, wants Grima to try and qualify this thing that words cannot explain. He claims it will help for Grima to let it out, but it’s not that easy.

Frederick lapses into silence once more, attentive.

Grima takes a breath, steeling himself, and says, “I don't want you to leave. Me.”

Frederick blinks, and then gathers him into his arms.

Or, tries to.

“Don't,” Grima says, and pushes him back. He's not sure why, but he doesn't want Frederick crowding him in, not right now.

Frederick stays right where Grima pushed him, and not moving an inch further. “I'm not leaving for good.” The alpha tugs his collar aside and points to the bite mark, fading but still present. “I'll be back, Rob. I promised, and I meant it.”

Grima averts his eyes from it, fingers going to his own neck - the other side.

“Thank you,” he says, feeling cold. He really means, _goodbye_.

But Frederick knows him too well. His eyebrows soften, and he tilts his head. “Please, tell me what's wrong. I don't guess right all the time.”

“Frederick…” Grima whispers, and pulls his knees up to his chest, creating a barrier between them.

It doesn’t stop Frederick, and this time Grima doesn’t protest as Frederick draws close again. The alpha rests his cheek against Grima’s hair, and Grima breathes in his scent. It is less smoky and more… pure, like crisp linen that has been left outside to dry in the fresh air.

It calms him, and his heart stops that angry fluttering. He closes his eyes and surrenders to Frederick’s embrace, body uncoiling.

_He’s going to leave_ , that familiar voice says.

“Maybe,” he mumbles into Frederick’s shirt, but grips the fabric tight.

He believes the voice, but it’s also hard to believe that he might never smell Frederick again, might never be allowed to touch him. He’s already ruined, in a different way than before, broken open and wanting.

“Just do it, Frederick,” he says eventually, his voice hollow and inflectionless. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I’ll know.”

“Gods,” Frederick whispers, and tilts Grima’s chin up toward him. There’s something in his eyes, some alpha spark. It hurts to look at it, but Grima can’t look away.

_Ruined… take it back_ , the voice hisses.

“I’m not leaving you forever. I _promise_ I’ll be back.” Frederick gathers one of Grima’s hands and presses it to his chest, to his heart.

Grima remembers touching his chest before, a lifetime or a few days ago, during his heat. _“I want this. I want you_ ,” Frederick had said.

“That was different,” Grima says, answering the gesture and what it represents. Frederick wavers and shimmers before him, a familiar ache behind his eyes. “I was in heat.”

“It doesn’t matter if you never have another heat again,” Frederick says, and taps his fingers on the back of Grima’s hand, pressed to his heart. “This… is yours.”

Grima curls his fingers into the soft shirt. A smile creeps onto his face as he looks up at Frederick through watery eyes. The alpha leans in, and his cheeks are unexpectedly soft, freshly-shaved. Grima lets Frederick kiss his concerns away, and they go deeper, sinking into his core. A distant part of his mind screams that this will end in blood and ruin, but he tries his best to ignore it.

When Frederick draws away, Grima’s body is loose and relaxed, knees wrapped around Frederick’s hips. A distant part of Grima is amazed at how Frederick does this without speaking a word, now - how he turns Grima’s insides into jelly and melts away all his hardness. Grima needs him, and it hurts.

Frederick is his weakness, and he’s never been so aware of it as in this instant, when it could be taken away from him.

“Please come back,” Grima whispers, pressing his hands to Frederick’s shoulder blades and staring up at him.

Frederick gives him a sad little smile, thumb tracing the line of his cheek, across his scars. “I promise.”

~*~

Promises mean nothing.

Grima paces, counting the seconds. He walks from the bedroom door, past the blazing fire, around the table, beside the grandfather clock standing in one corner. Around nine hundred and forty seven seconds, he loses track, the numbers tumbling out of his head to scatter across the floor. Grima thinks about throwing the mugs left over from their breakfast, hurling the expensive ceramic plates to the hard stone floor, relishing the crash and the ruin. He doesn’t, though - not yet.

Frederick had said it would take an hour, more or less. Just going to speak with the royal guards, and make sure everything is still in order. Frederick loves being able to provide for the royal couple. It is what led him to defend Morgan with his dying breath, in another world.

Being trapped here after Grima’s heat must not have been very comfortable for Frederick, but he never gave any outward indication that he felt so. Grima had suggested that Frederick could leave, after the exalt’s unexpected visit. Frederick had refused, and even had the audacity to look upset over it. Grima never brought it up again, but it has been in the back of his mind. Frederick can’t stay here forever.

The clock tolls the hour, and Grima paces. He crosses closer and closer to Frederick’s chair, eventually trailing his hand along the top of it.

_He won’t return_. But why did he stay for so long?

It wasn’t for Grima’s loving, caring personality, that’s for sure. Since the heat Grima has been moody and withdrawn. They haven’t had sex, and Frederick hasn’t asked for it. Grima gets the feeling he’s waiting for _him_ to make the first move.

But he won’t, or can’t. No matter how much he wants it.

Grima eventually curls up in Frederick’s chair, burying his face in the cushioned back, seeking out that fleeting warmth and calming scent. The knife hangs heavy in his pocket against his thigh, calling to him, but he doesn’t draw it out. He tries to ignore it. He’s still not sure why Frederick left it with him, even after the heat. It’s a measure of trust, misplaced, and also a challenge. Frederick expects better of him, Grima knows, expects him not to do it anymore. But that makes him want to do it, to reach for the knife, as if he could prove to Frederick this is all one bad mistake.

_Do you really expect him to come back_? the insidious voice asks. _He’s gone_.

Grima lets out a soft moan, and digs his fingernails into his scars, pressing his forehead into the cushioning, closing the emptiness of his rooms into cool, faintly-scented darkness.

If Frederick doesn’t return, it won’t leave Grima any worse than before. He’d been friendless and angry before, and he can survive it again. And if it feels a little more hollow, a little more desperate than before… then so what?

_We can plot our revenge against him, against all of them_ , the voice whispers.

“Revenge…” Grima echoes. It fills his mouth with a bitter taste. He doesn’t know if he can do that, anymore. Frederick made him _weak_. He turned himself weak, letting his omega take over. Grima trembles, and curls into the chair a little more. His hand slips into his pocket, and then away.

He consults the clock. Thirty-seven minutes since Frederick left.

Grima rises from the chair and goes into the bedroom, mechanically setting one foot in front of the other. The wood floor is cool beneath his bare feet. He moves to the dresser, to one drawer in particular, and stares down at the crisp, neatly-folded linen. His fingers dance along the white shirts, and he withdraws one. It unfolds, dangling from the shoulder, deflated, the sharp lines hanging at odd angles. Frederick made a big deal out of placing his shirts just so, and showing Grima where he kept them… as if giving Grima permission to touch them if he needed it.

Grima shouldn’t do this - it’s such a weak, _omega_ thing to do. Even as he scowls his resentment, he brings the shirt up to his nose and breathes in.

That familiar scent floods him, washes some of the panic from his chest. He sinks onto the bed and curls around the shirt, and wishes it were Frederick.

_Weak, so weak_ , the voice mocks. _You shouldn’t have let him in. Take it back._

“I know,” he moans. He knew that letting Frederick in would make him weaker. He should have suffered his heat alone - it’s what he deserves. He can’t take it back, though - he doesn’t know how.

With Frederick’s scent in his nose, it is easy to drift toward sleep. It calms him, even as part of him rails against it.

When he closes his eyes, he dreams of Chrom. Chrom, the alpha he once loved, and still loves, standing beside him on the grass. Grima turns toward him, and smiles, but he immediately realizes something is off.

“ _How could you?_ ” Chrom demands, gripping Grima’s arms, his face hard and dark as stormclouds. There’s a gaping hole in his chest, looking at him with condemnation like some evil third eye. “ _How could you betray me with_ him?”

_I didn’t_ , Grima wants to say, wants to recoil from those bruising hands like manacles. _You’re dead…_ But Grima can’t speak, can’t defend himself - his mouth is sewn shut, blood sour on his tongue.

Only his deeds and the mate-mark on his skin speak for him, now.

Chrom casts him away, and Grima falls to his hands and knees in the wet grass. Chrom’s fury breaks over them both, thunder rolling around them, vibrating his soul. When this storm hits, it will be all-consuming, he knows. It will destroy everything.

Grima wants it to happen, wants Chrom to rip him into oblivion. He holds his hands out toward Chrom, welcoming the end.

With a roar, Chrom raises a hand. A dark, twisted version of Falchion springs forth, eager to devour him.

Somewhere outside of himself, a door opens and closes.

Grima bolts upright, heart racing, fingers gripping the white shirt and leaving creases in the fabric. From one nightmare, into another. A laugh bubbles forth, out of the back of his mind, and he bites his lips to keep it from bursting out of him. He knows it won’t sound sane.

It’s not going to be Frederick - but he has to know. His body leads him forward to the doorknob. His hand is sweaty, and he fumbles at the knob, Frederick’s crumpled shirt trailing from one hand as he struggles to grip it.

The doorknob turns beneath his slippery palm, and he backs away as the door swings toward him.

Frederick stares down at him, eyebrows knit together. “Rob--” he starts.

“Frederick...” Grima move to the alpha, tears of relief building in his eyes. Frederick’s arms are strong and welcoming around him. His knees give out, and Frederick holds him upright, scent and presence shooing the horrible dream away, and setting things right in Grima’s mind.

As Frederick holds him, Grima hears himself whispering, over and over again, “You came back… you came back.”

Frederick, with no trace of mockery in his tone, whispers back, “I promised.”

~*~

The next time Frederick leaves, two days later, Grima invites himself along. He’s doing it to avoid the pain of separation, to avoid those dark thoughts that grow ever clearer when Frederick isn’t there. He hates himself, a little, for this weakness, but when Frederick smiles, obviously glad that Grima asked to join him, it’s almost worth it.

They walk side by side, in stark contrast to every other time they left Grima’s rooms together. Frederick’s arm brushes against Grima’s from time to time, and Grima slows his pace to match Frederick’s. The halls are drafty and cold, but Grima hardly feels it. He wraps his worn cloak a little tighter around his shoulders, the knife a weight tugging at his pocket.

There’s a tingle of warmth between them every time their hands touch. Frederick is probably doing this deliberately… but Grima doesn’t mind that much.

Frederick introduces Grima to his warhorse, Daisy. She sniffs at Grima’s hair, snorts, and nibbles a sugar cube from his hand. Her muzzle is soft and warm, and Grima’s hand trembles as he pets her forelock.

After that, she takes to Grima, mouthing at his hair and whuffling into his shirt while Frederick curries her flank to a chestnut gleam. The mare’s large, gentle eyes regard him without expression.

Others pass by outside their stall, visible over the half-door, but Grima ignores them for the alpha standing close at hand. Frederick is gentle and careful as he hands Grima the curry brush, as he shows Grima how to clean debris from her hooves.

Grima finds Frederick’s trust refreshing, and relaxing.

It is… a pleasant afternoon, and afterward Grima curls up with his head pillowed on Frederick’s lap, overwhelmed with all these emotions he never expected to feel again. That voice is nowhere to be found, and the silence in his mind feels right. If tears seep over the ridge of his nose, into Frederick’s pant leg, neither of them point it out. Frederick’s hand is soft and soothing in his hair, and Grima dozes in and out, oddly content.

~*~

The days pass, turning into one week, and then two. Frederick leaves almost every day now, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, but he always returns to Grima. It doesn’t make his absence any easier, but gradually Grima starts thinking about _when_ Frederick will return, rather than _if._  The voice returns, but Grima has memories to push it back, to prove it wrong.

Frederick’s even breathing and alpha scent are a comfort in the middle of the night, when Grima stirs awake, old impulses clawing at his skin. He’s there, gentle and affectionate, attentive, and Grima finds himself soothed back to sleep more often than not. And on those nights he cannot sleep, Frederick sits up with him.

It wasn’t like this with his previous mate, Grima thinks, as he sits curled up in Frederick’s chair, knees pressed to his chest, nightmares rapidly fading under Frederick’s watch. Frederick’s hand rubs at his hair as the alpha leans over the chair. He seems tired, but when Grima tells him to go away, he just gives Grima a look.

Grima closes his eyes and gives into the sensation, the touch of his mate more effective than any healing staff.

~*~

On a cold still night, after dinner, they sit in silence. Frederick is looking over some paperwork for the exalt, and Grima is reading. Trying to, anyway.

The book cannot keeping his attention any longer. Staring at the words makes his mind cramp up, go in familiar circles.

Grima slams the book closed and rises.

Frederick glances up from his seat at the table, eyebrows pulled low as Grima starts pacing. After a few moments, his attention wanders back to his assignment.

Grima knows Frederick is aware of his mood, even without his eyes on him. Omega speaks to alpha, through their bond. Before his heat, Frederick’s attention would have sent angry chills down Grima’s spine. Now it’s different. Maybe... he even likes it.

Back and forth, from the heat of the fire to the wall, and back again. Something is stirring inside. Not a voice, not his omega, and not the old simmering fury. He doesn’t know what it is, only that it makes him move in agitation.

After a few rounds of pacing, he turns and shoves his way into the bedroom. He throws open the balcony door. The cold air chills his bare arms, brushing against his exposed right wrist, as gentle as Frederick’s kiss. Grima ignores the brief panic that shudders through him as he spots the lines crossing his wrist. The first time he went without the vambrace, Frederick hadn’t reacted at all. It’s not like Frederick hasn’t _seen_ it already, anyway. Grima has been feeling… almost comfortable in Frederick’s presence. So sometimes, he keeps the vambrace off.

The wind ruffles his hair and the collar of his short bolero jacket. It might snow, tonight, and the air is heavy with that pregnant readiness. When Grima closes his eyes, he remembers flying. He leans against the balcony ledge and turns his face toward the sky, and lets the wind blow through him, until some of his agitation has calmed.

_Take it back_ , the voice whispers piteously. Grima ignores it.

He hears Frederick at the door, a deliberate scuff of boot on the stone. Then his worn purple cloak settles over his shoulders.

Grima glances up at Frederick. His alpha - his mate - gives him a warm smile, and Grima dredges a small, foreign smile in response. Their breaths puff in the cool air. Frederick is wearing a thick brown cloak, lined with fur on the inside. He’d tried to offer Grima a matching cloak, new and warm, but he’d turned it down.

Grima slides his arms into his sleeves. With a little effort, he goes to Frederick and curls up beneath the strength of his arm, pressed to the alpha’s side. Frederick draws him close, cloak falling over his arm and down to cover Grima. Through the crisp, chill air, he breathes in Frederick’s familiar scent.

He… likes this. Frederick’s touch, the way they react to each other… Grima closes his eyes and rests his temple against Frederick’s chest. It’s been a while since he thought about how much Frederick has ruined him. A different sensation builds inside, rising from the ashes of his pain.

His hand finds its way into his pocket, and curls around the knife. Familiar, comforting… but also dangerous. Frederick hasn’t asked for it back, yet, and it’s been almost three weeks since Grima’s heat.

There on the balcony, with Frederick’s arm around him… Grima makes a decision. It’s one he hopes he won’t regret.

He withdraws the knife and holds it in both hands. Frederick stills, and even though the alpha is still looking out across the courtyard, Grima knows he’s seen it, seen the way the bright gray sky reflects dull along its surface.

They’ve been walking on tentative eggshells together, since the heat, and every time Grima reaches for Frederick, the alpha relaxes. Grima hurt him, before his heat, sending him away, and he realizes in that moment that Frederick is afraid he will do it again.

Grima swallows, and then turns out from beneath Frederick’s arm.

“I want you to take this,” he whispers, staring at the clasp at Frederick’s neck, holding the cloak in place.

“Rob,” Frederick says, and it means a thousand different things.

Grima holds the knife out toward Frederick, and the alpha lifts it from his hands.

“What should I do with it?”

“Get rid of it,” Grima says, and for a moment it almost feels as if a heavy weight has lifted off of him. He draws in a breath and finally looks up at Frederick’s face.

Frederick’s eyes are oddly bright, and he nods solemnly, as if he understands the trust in this simple interaction. “Thank you,” Frederick says. He reaches out and runs his fingers through Grima’s hair - already a familiar gesture, and Grima leans into it.

“I think I should say... thank _you_ , Frederick,” Grima says, and then ducks his face into Frederick’s shoulder. His heart is hammering in his chest, and a different weight settles around him. It’s oddly freeing.

Frederick shifts back after a moment, and tilts Grima’s face up. Grima stares into those brown eyes, hardly daring to breathe. His alpha kisses him, gentle and soft, and Grima reaches up to Frederick’s neck, tracing his jaw, learning every line of his throat.

They stand together on the balcony until the snow comes, dusting the world in silence, and then retreat to the warmth and comfort of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of a transitional chapter there. I wanted to show Grima's coming to understand Frederick a little more, and trusting him that he's not going to leave. He's still got a ways to go, but this is progress. Just to clarify, they have not had sex since the heat, as of the end of this chapter. I'll be addressing that a little more in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter might be a little shorter than this one, but contains a super pivotal scene... we'll see where it goes from here.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it’s been a while since I updated, here’s a little summary from what happened in the previous chapter:  
> Frederick leaves for the first time since his heat, and Grima is certain Frederick won’t return. But he does, and Grima reluctantly realizes that Frederick isn’t going to abandon him. Frederick introduces Grima to his warhorse, and they get more comfortable with casual touches. Grima surrenders the knife to Frederick.

“I want to show you something,” Frederick says the next afternoon.

Grima looks up from his book, glad for a distraction. Frederick is leaning forward on his elbows. He seems… eager, and reserved, something guarded in his expression. “What is it?”

“A surprise,” Frederick says, a smile hesitating on his mouth. “But I hope you’ll like it.”

Grima doesn’t generally like surprises. Most of them have been bad to this point. But this is Frederick, so he closes the book.

They walk through the palace together, as they have often since that first visit to the stables. Grima finds himself relaxing beside the strong, constant alpha presence. It is easier than it once was.

He still hesitates before the corridor where he met his daughter, expecting those flashing blue eyes, pinched with anger and hatred. The corridor is empty, but her words slash through his mind, still razor sharp. _You’re not my father. You killed both of them!_ All of Frederick’s presence and comfort cannot erase her harsh words, though Grima certainly tries to forget.

There’s a tension in Frederick’s shoulders that only increases as they walk. Grima thinks about reaching up to brush it away, like a speck of lint, but holds himself back.

Today, Frederick leads him downstairs. Are they going to the stables? But no, Frederick turns right instead of left. Half-frozen memories circle in Grima’s head. He knows he’s been this way before, but it was in another lifetime, and he’s forgotten where it leads. For a moment, he hesitates, fearing this will lead him down a path to memories he hasn’t worn straight through. Frederick stops, glancing back. He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t have to - Grima braces himself, and closes the distance between them. He wants to trust Frederick, as hard as it may be, sometimes.

It is only when they stop at a well-worn door, a metal suit of armor standing guard beside it, that Grima realizes where he is.

This leads to the knights’ quarters.

Grima’s throat is unexpectedly tight as he nods to Frederick. Frederick pushes the door open and motions him in.

The common room is cozy, all wood and rustic decorations. When the Shepherds grew in number, the knights within their ranks expanded into this section of the palace. Grima remembers Stahl and Sully inviting him here for poker and rum, and later Sumia, their reddened faces dancing before him like phantoms. He remembers Frederick, a frowning, wary figure, disappearing into his own rooms as their conversation grew loud and the rum flowed freely.

Now, it is quiet and somber, a fire wound down to glowing embers in the hearth, stern counterpoint to his own lively memories.

A soft noise comes from their right as they step into the common room. Before he can fully acknowledge what that sound is, he sees them through the partially-open door.

Stahl and Gaius lie sprawled together on the bed, engaged in very private activities. Stahl makes that soft noise again. Gaius chuckles and leans down, murmuring something affectionate into Stahl’s temple.

Grima stares. He’s surprised to see the two of them together like this. The knight and the thief are both betas, and neither had shown a preference for the other when Grima knew them.

These two are not the men he once knew. They are, but they aren’t.

Grima hasn’t seen much of the Shepherds since losing his godhood. Glimpses here and there, mostly scowls, sometimes pity. Anger from those who lost family to his minions, in this world. From his own Shepherds, he recalls horror, betrayal - murdering them one by one.

Memories gather close, fogging his eyes like breath against a cold window. Gaius had been his close friend, before. _Thick as thieves_ , Gaius used to say, in his gently-mocking way. He had joked with Grima more than once that if none of the alphas interested him, he would gladly step in during Grima’s heat.

Grima’s chest hurts.

Frederick touches his shoulder and guides him away. Grima blinks away the tears, embarrassed to be caught staring. He’s glad that Gaius and Stahl didn’t notice them, though - it would have been even worse.

Grima digs his hand into his pocket, looking for that pricking sharpness. For a moment, he panics over its absence - but then remembers last night. He recalls the way Frederick accepted the knife, as if it were a priceless treasure. He recalls, too, the warmth of Frederick’s nose and cheeks, brushing against his own during their brief kiss.

Grima removes his hand from his pocket and reaches for Frederick’s, pressing delicate fingers against worn callouses.

Frederick smiles down at him, and opens the door just beside the fireplace. “This is it,” he says, and lets Grima inside.

It smells like Frederick - that’s the first thing Grima notices, attuned to his alpha’s scent.

He drops Frederick’s hand, and moves slowly around the room. It is smaller than he’d expected. Grima could pace from wall to wall in about seven strides, if he’s moving fast. Frederick could clear it in six.

There’s a large armor stand looming in one corner, silvery-blue armor gleaming with reflected sunlight from the single window along the back wall. A huge desk stands at the rear, two oversized armchairs before the small fireplace. Grima walks up to the desk and runs a finger along the swirled metal candelabra beside it.

There’s a cloth-covered archway in the wall. Grima reaches for it, then glances back.

Frederick trails behind Grima, silently nodding permission. He looks… unhappy, and Grima can’t deduce why. Isn’t this what he wanted to show Grima? He stares at the alpha for a moment, then pushes through the curtains.

The bedroom is cozy, and the lack of windows is comforting rather than restricting. Everything in here is in its place, clothing (probably neatly folded and pressed) in dressers and hanging in the small wardrobe, the bed made crisp, exactly as he expected. Candleflames dance atop candelabras on the nightstands framing the large bed.

Grima’s assigned rooms have never felt like _his_. They are a temporary holding cell, and sometimes a borrowed sanctuary. But this small space feels like Frederick’s, and a strange longing takes hold, deep in his chest. It is exactly how he’d imagined it - neat, organized, lived-in.

Grima is very aware that _he_ doesn’t belong, chaos and destruction among the orderly pieces of Frederick’s existence. But he wants to.

Frederick passes through the curtains behind Grima, standing a cautious distance away, body still tense.

The voice in the back of Grima’s mind is muttering about how this would be the perfect opportunity to injure Frederick and free himself, but Grima ignores it. He doesn’t _want_ to escape.

_Take it back_ , the voice begs.

Deliberately, Grima sits on the bed. The mattress is high, but soft, and he leans back on his hands, feet barely touching the floor. He knows how invasive this is, and remembers all those times Frederick intruded on his own bed. But it also feels right, as if he’s… staking a claim. His omega preens inside, more pleased with this than Grima is willing to admit. When Frederick just stands there, he pats the knitted top-blanket meaningfully beside him.

Frederick comes closer, eyebrows still scrunched, and sits. He’s so tense, so straight-backed. Grima sets a deliberate hand on Frederick’s knee, then studies the little bowl full of cufflinks, set on the nightstand. The alpha straightens a bit more before relaxing. They sag toward each other, leg to leg.

Frederick finally prompts, “What do you think?”

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Grima says. The voice is pointing out a multitude of uses for the sharpened knitting needles, sticking out of the basket on the far nightstand.

Frederick sighs. “I don’t need anything larger than this. Chrom keeps trying to upgrade me, but I like it here.”

Grima flinches at the mention of that name, but tries to let it go. His thumb traces the seam at the side of Frederick’s pants as he studies the small bedroom. Eventually, he looks up at Frederick. His alpha’s mouth is twisted.

“I like it,” Grima says.

“Do you?” Frederick’s expression lightens, almost a smile.

Grima nods, his eyes drifting down to the alpha’s neck.

Words flutter in his stomach like trapped butterflies, a request that he doesn’t think he should make. How much can he trust Frederick? He hasn’t abandoned him yet… and this may be as good an opening as he will ever get. Steeling up his courage, he forces the words out. “Do you think… we could live down here?”

Frederick stares at him, eyebrows sliding up.

Grima instantly wants to steal the words back. He opens his mouth and draws a quick breath, ready to rescind this obviously ridiculous offer. But with his mouth open, he tastes Frederick’s reaction, his alpha scent. He smells - happy, in a way that defies explanation. It brings a prickling of tears to Grima’s eyes, and he squeezes them closed against that strange emotion in his own chest.

Frederick takes his hand. There’s no anger in his face, anger or disgust. His voice is cautious. “You would live here - with me? Isn’t it too small?”

Grima’s hand tightens, and his heart beats faster.

He’s never been here before, and it feels like a fresh start. He could build… a home here, with Frederick. A place to belong. But Grima doesn’t know how to explain this to Frederick, how to voice this longing in his chest.

“It’s… more comfortable than upstairs.” He looks down, then slants his eyes sideways at Frederick. “It could use a bookshelf.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Grima says, and nods.

“I will make you a bookshelf.” Frederick’s smile returns, and it makes Grima melt, just a bit.

Grima rests his head on Frederick’s bicep, their hands falling to Frederick’s thigh, twined together. Frederick sighs, the breath warm through Grima’s hair.

Grima swears he can feel Frederick’s simple pleasure emanating through the places where their bodies touch. He’s… happy, and that makes Grima pleased. This is just their bond, resonating between them, but it's also something more.

Grima reaches up and cups Frederick’s clean-shaven cheek, thumb grazing the line of his mouth. Frederick turns into his hand and kisses it, soft, hesitant, always gentle. Tears spring to Grima’s eyes, gathering on his lowered lashes. The alpha makes a soft sound, a vibration against the bones of Grima’s hand.

He thinks about how Gaius and Stahl looked, together - happy, satisfied in each other’s company, in each other’s bodies.

Grima turns, curls his hand on Frederick’s cheek, and pulls him down. Frederick is absolutely still, his breath hitching, but he goes where Grima moves him.

Grima kisses him. It’s soft, more tentative than Grima had planned, changing halfway through the small movement into something he didn’t expect. He feels the puff of air as Frederick exhales, tastes the small tremor in his lips - and then, with a growl, Frederick is kissing _him_.

Grima surrenders to it, welcomes it like an incoming spear, even moves _toward_ it. His knee digs hard into Frederick’s thigh as he turns. A hand goes to the small of his back, beneath his cloak.

All of that hesitation is gone from Frederick now, his alpha at least partially unleashed. He kisses hard, leaving Grima gasping for breath and reeling as alpha pheromones flood his lungs. His focus has narrowed to the points where their bodies touch, and the desire, within himself, to have every point touch - to overwhelm and be overwhelmed.

When Frederick finally pulls away, Grima lies on his back, panting. He doesn’t remember falling back, or being laid down.

There’s a brilliance in the alpha’s dark eyes, as if his soul shines through, bright and pure.

“I don’t deserve this,” Grima whispers, and touches his own cheeks, feels the wetness there, belatedly tastes the salt on his lips, tainting their kiss. It seeps into his hair as he lies there.

“You do,” Frederick says, and sweeps away the tears with calloused, gentle fingers. He does it as he does everything, all his focus devoted to his task, and the motion brings more tears. “You do, and every day I will prove it to you until you believe me.”

“Frederick,” Grima says, part admonishment and part pleading.

“Rob,” Frederick answers, the warmth of a thousand fires in his tone.

Grima wants to fight him on this, and Frederick must sense it, because he leans in and kisses away all the protests, until Grima lays placid and calm beneath him. He pulls back and smiles, and Grima smiles too, because how can he not when Frederick looks at him like that?

“Why don’t we go speak with Robin?” Frederick suggests, a distracting hand brushing the hair back from his forehead. He hasn't allowed anyone to get close enough to cut his hair… but Grima thinks he might let Frederick do it, if he offers. He closes his eyes and leans into that touch.

“Hmm?” Frederick prods, softly.

Grima blinks at him. “What?”

Frederick rises, and draws Grima up with him. “We can speak with Robin about you moving down here, with me.”

Grima frowns at Frederick’s neck, where the mate mark has begun to fade. He longs to sink his teeth into that soft flesh, to taste Frederick again. They don’t technically have to - the bite mark is just a formality. Alpha and omega separated by war or duty are still mated. Their bond lingers in truth, until either or both decide to break it. _Or until death do us part_ , Grima thinks, the words aching.

Frederick’s eyes are attentive, those eyebrows scrunching together. “We don’t have to do this today,” he hazards.

Grima shakes himself. “I want to,” he says, and presses his fingers to Frederick’s neck.

The alpha’s eyes shudder closed, and tension fades from his body. He cups Grima’s hand against his warm skin, and smiles.

“Let’s go,” Grima says.

~*~

Outside of Robin’s door, Frederick hesitates, glancing down over his mate. Rob’s hand curls around Frederick’s elbow, but he doesn’t seem particularly stressed by the impending conversation. There’s a hope in his expression, a brightness that hasn’t been there in months. It’s fragile, like a sheet of glass over a pond. But it’s there.

Taking Rob to his room in the knight’s wing had been a calculated risk. He hadn’t expected that reaction - it had merely been a destination, and an offering. He’d needed to give something of himself to Rob, after the knife, and this was one of his few “possessions” that meant something to him.

He also hadn’t expected Rob to kiss him. The memory has his mouth curling upward, outside his volition.

Frederick steadies himself and knocks at the door.

The door opens, but Robin isn’t looking at them. Marc is crying in his arm, a fussy whine, and most of his attention is for the baby. “Hush, I know… Let me just - oh.” Robin takes in their sudden appearance, and sighs in relief. There’s a faint, rising whistle behind him. “Here--” Before Frederick can offer to take Marc, Robin steps up to Rob and hands him off, there in the doorway.

Rob’s eyes widen, but he curls protectively around Marc, nestling him and the blankets into his arms in a natural, relaxed movement. Marc is surprised into silence by the handoff, and Frederick is, too. Such trust… Robin seems perfectly fine with leaving Marc in Rob’s arms while he goes and pours some water from the steaming kettle at the fireplace.

“Alright?” he asks, quietly, but Rob doesn’t answer.

After a moment, Frederick puts a gentle hand on Rob’s back and guides them to the couch. Marc stares up at Rob, mouth working. Rob stares back with a similar expression, unguarded and unexpectedly gentle. He doesn’t seem pained, so Frederick lets them be.

Rob smells different with this child in his arms. Frederick has to sit back and throw an arm across the top of the couch to keep from burying his face in Rob’s neck. He’s certain that will break the spell, so he settles for breathing as deeply as he can from here. This is a new side of Rob, one that he’s seen maybe once before - when Robin went into labor. He still remembers the way Rob held Robin close, refusing to let go… determined to protect him.

Marc shoves a fat hand into his mouth, still looking at Rob. This likely isn’t Rob’s first time holding him.

Gradually, Rob settles in beneath Frederick’s outstretched arm. He is frowning now, his eyes darkening, but when Marc reaches out with his pudgy hand, Rob gives him a finger to grab. Frederick watches, fascinated by this paternal side of his mate, until Robin returns with three mugs of tea.

As Robin sits on Rob’s other side, Rob doesn’t react. And Robin makes no move to take the baby back, instead taking a healthy draught of tea and heaving a sigh.

“I take it you two didn’t stop in to help me with Marc,” Robin finally says. “Sorry about that, but I needed some tea… I can take him back, if you’d like.”

Rob gives a little shrug, and Frederick can’t stop his eyebrows from rising up his forehead. _This_ is unexpected.

Robin rubs at his fast-dwindling baby gut - remarkable, as always, how quickly male omegas lose all that baby weight - and takes the teacup once more.

“We came to ask you about something,” Frederick says, when it appears that Rob is too absorbed to speak. “A… somewhat delicate matter.”

Robin nods - they both understand that he means it has to do with Chrom. “Go on.”

“We want to see about changing our living arrangements.”

“How so?”

Marc makes a gurgling noise, and stuffs Rob’s finger into his mouth. Rob shudders and closes his eyes, but lets the baby suck on it.

“My old rooms, down in the knights’ hall… We would like to move down there.”

“Are his assigned quarters too small?” Robin frowns. “We can find other accommodations for the two of you.”

Rob’s arms tighten on the bundle in his arms, just slightly. Frederick isn’t certain if Rob is listening to the conversation, so he inspects him, looking for tell-tale signs of inner turmoil or awareness. Rob looks… good, with the baby. The only way he would look better is if that were Frederick’s…

_No_. Frederick squashes the desire, looking away. A shiver runs up his spine at the thought that even now, Rob might be pregnant with his child. They did not take any precautions, any herbs or tonics - it is the one thing Frederick regrets about their mating. Next time, he will be prepared, and they will have a conversation well before heat - and lust - clouds judgment.

Physically, Rob may not be able to bear children. Emotionally… Frederick doesn't know if Rob could survive another pregnancy, with everything he's been through - with his firstborn still refusing to speak to him. He's made such progress, and Frederick is loathe to ruin it over this. He'd resigned himself to never having a family long ago. It's just a bit of melancholy at seeing Rob with the royal baby.

“It's what I want,” Rob says into the silence. He withdraws his finger from Marc’s mouth, and turns to Robin. “I'd like… a change. And leaving the palace is out of the question.”

Frederick shifts. “Is _that_ something you want?”

Rob looks back. He seems… a bit dazed, his attention focused somewhere far away. “I don't know.”

Marc starts to cry again, and Rob rocks him until he settles. He even murmurs something soft and soothing… obviously Plegian, by the syllables and intonation. The words roll off his tongue like music. Rob’s Ylissean is barely accented, but he speaks Plegian without hesitation. Frederick remembers a time when the only Plegian he’d heard was what was shouted across a battlefield. He decides then and there that he wants to learn more of his mate’s roots.

“What does it mean?” Robin asks, soft and eager. Robin lost all his memories of his childhood, but Rob’s are intact. Perhaps…

Rob blinks, and looks away, embarrassed. “It’s nothing, just nonsense.”

It most certainly is not, but Frederick isn’t going to press him now. He and Robin exchange quick glances over Rob’s head.

“Will... the exalt let us move down there?” Rob asks. He doesn’t smell as good, and he’s a bit stiffer than he was before.

Robin gives them both a troubled smile. “I’ll talk to him.”

He doesn’t envy Robin that conversation. Frederick and Chrom haven’t been on the best of terms, since the heat. Yes, Chrom needs him… but he’s been a little distant. Normally Frederick would just ask him directly, but now, they need a go-between. “Thank you,” Frederick says.

“Yes,” Rob says, and catches Robin’s hand. “Thank you.”

Robin looks at him, and things pass between the two. Frederick is reminded of his assessment from before - how they are like brothers, caring for one another.

He thinks that Robin will probably coax those memories out of Rob, sooner than either expect.

“Don’t thank me until it’s done,” Robin says. “This will not be easy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this wasn't the most exciting of chapters, but maybe Grima holding a baby makes up for that...? I was originally going to have Grima and Frederick have sex in his rooms, but Grima got quite uncomfortable when I was writing it. He's definitely not ready for it yet, but soon! I'm also planning a painful scene involving Morgan and Lucina, hopefully the next section will be ready soon! 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for all your lovely comments, and if you're still here, know that I'm trying my best to get this story wrapped up! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


	12. Chapter 12

It takes four days before Frederick is summoned to Chrom’s office, alone.

Rob trembles as he says goodbye, and Frederick draws him close. “It will be fine,” he says, knowing that Rob will probably spend the time curled up in bed, anxiously waiting. When he kisses Rob’s cheek, it feels cold and clammy, and his eyes are dim.

There’s nothing to be done, and the sooner Frederick leaves, the sooner he can return. So Frederick goes, feeling a little as if he’s been called out for war.

_This is just Chrom_ , Frederick thinks, striding down the halls, back straight and shoulders back. Chrom can be rational. They’ve argued in the past, but always come together when it counted. For some reason, he thinks of the way Chrom looked during Robin’s first heat, overwhelmed with rut. Frederick had stepped aside, then… but he won’t stand aside for Rob. This is different. Rob is _his_ , and he won’t let Chrom thwart their happiness.

He pauses before the double doors to the exalt’s official chamber, and checks himself. He forces his hands to unclench. He smells of alpha - the two guards peek at him from the corners of their eyes. He knows them by name, but he doesn’t greet them now. He cannot afford distraction. He needs to be Rob’s alpha, while not confronting Chrom’s authority completely.

Another breath, and then he steps forward, and one of the guards pulls the door open.

Chrom is seated at his desk, looking tired. The crown has never sat regally on his head, as it did on Emmeryn’s. Since Chrom and Robin returned peace to the realm, he has been busy. He is a man of action, not talk… but he has done his best. Frederick feels strangely proud, looking at the prince he helped raise.

Chrom doesn’t look up, even when the door closes behind Frederick. His bottom lip curls in between his teeth as he writes.

Frederick clears his throat. “You wanted to see me?”

“Come in, Frederick,” Chrom says, quill scratching at the parchment. With a flourish, he sets the quill into the inkwell and sits back, blue eyes watching Frederick approach.

Frederick takes one wrist in his other hand, behind his back, and stops a few paces from the desk. “I take it this is about Rob moving in with me?”

Chrom’s eyes darken, and his nose scrunches. “It is. Please, sit.”

“I’d rather stand,” Frederick says.

Chrom’s hand closes into a fist on the armrest. “I’m going to let you do it… please, just sit.”

Frederick loosens his stance, and moves to the chair across the desk.

Chrom leans on his elbows, his furred cloak falling over hunched shoulders. The crown curls through his hair. Frederick is used to seeing it on him, but its presence now is unsettling. “Tell me why you want to do this,” Chrom says.

“It was Rob’s idea,” Frederick explains. “I believe he wants a fresh start.”

“A fresh start.” Pain flits across Chrom’s face, and he smooths it aside with a hand. “I had hoped that… he would be like Robin. He would _be_ Robin… that we could solve all this without sacrificing my mate. Both of my mates.” Chrom shoots him a glare, and then tries to shake off his aggression. It clings to him, the scent of violence, and Frederick knows how much the exalt is holding himself in check.

Frederick doesn’t like where this is going. The thought that Chrom would have two mates… Rob would have welcomed it, during his heat… but afterwards it would have torn him apart.

“Rob is not your mate,” Frederick says, a bit more growl to his words than he intends.

Chrom sits up straighter. “I _know_ ,” he says. “I am not contesting that. I don’t want to get in your way.”

Frederick stretches his neck, popping out the tension, and sits back. “...But?” he coaxes, sensing that Chrom isn’t done with that thought.

“But I have a hard time staying back while you _mate_ him.”

A cold sort of fury builds in Frederick’s chest. “Do you remember when you went to Plegia, and Robin went into heat?”

Chrom stares at him, his eyes practically flaming. _Tread cautiously_ , that look says.

“Robin asked me to help him. I did not, because he was your mate. I deferred to you, because I knew he was yours.” Frederick pauses, for impact. “Rob is not yours. You made that clear in his first heat, when you locked him away, rather than help him through it.”

“He was _dangerous_ \--” Chrom starts.

“You don’t care for _him_ , you care only that he looks and smells like your mate.”

“That’s not fair!” Chrom’s heavy chair scrapes on the floor as he leaps to his feet, and Frederick rises too, slower, more deliberate.

_Calm_ , Frederick thinks, to himself and to Chrom.

Chrom snaps, “I do care!”

“Maybe so. But I love him, and I know that every time he sees you, he remembers how much he’s lost. So if taking him down to my rooms for a while will help with that, then I’m going to do it.”

For a moment, Frederick is certain Chrom is going to comes at him, upending the heavy desk and all its accoutrements. The exalt coils, like a snake about to strike. Frederick readies himself. He won’t hit his liege, but he won’t allow himself to be hurt, either.

But then, Chrom shakes himself out, a bit like a dog. He retakes his seat, knuckles white on the armrests. A muscle cords and uncords in his throat as he swallows. “You’re right,” he says, not looking up from the papers in a neat pile. “Damn it all, you’re right. I never _wanted_ to hurt him. It just… happened. And then, it was too late. Robin said… said we’re all caught up in each other, twisted against each other, like springs at cross-purposes…”

Frederick nearly gawks at him - he’s never seen Chrom back down from him like this. Usually they need to step away, to maneuver around it for a time, until Chrom accepts it. Chrom doesn’t usually face these sort of flaws head-on.

Robin has been busy.

When Chrom finally looks up, he’s petulant - but rather calm, considering his reaction from moments earlier.

Frederick sits, although he’d rather stand, levelling the field between them. “I think Robin is correct. I’ve been thinking about… taking a leave from the palace, for a while.”

Chrom narrows his eyes. “Does he - Rob - want that?”

Frederick hesitates, and then shakes his head. “Not yet. I don’t think it’s good to keep Rob away from Robin.”

“Good,” Chrom mutters, and then, as if realizing what he’s said, continues, “I mean, I’m glad he will…” He waves a hand to finish the sentence.

“Rob will go into heat again,” Frederick says. He tries to keep his tone gentle, but he sees Chrom bristling. “You can’t be there when he does. You have to stay away.”

Chrom grinds his teeth so hard Frederick can hear them, across the desk. “I know.”

They watch each other in silence. Chrom’s eyes grow more and more angry, but Frederick keeps himself still and calm.

Finally, Chrom asks, “You… love him?”

“I do,” Frederick says, and it’s the easiest thing he’s said all meeting.

“Good.” Chrom reaches for his quill, a little abruptly. “Let me know if you need any help with moving.”

Frederick smiles. “I only need some wood.”

“Wood?”

“For a bookshelf,” Frederick says.

Chrom nods. “I’ll speak to the provisioner. You can have whatever you wish from the stores.” He replaces the quill, and presses his hands to the table, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “Take… better care of him than I did,” he says, eyes flashing with warning.

Frederick smiles back, grimly. “I will. Milord,” he says, and stands, and bows to Chrom.

He raps on the doors, and one of the guards lets him out. They look curiously at him. He wonders if they heard Chrom’s raised voice, but the doors are thick, and Frederick picks the guards for their discretion. It wouldn’t do to have gossips outside the crown’s doors.

_Chrom… agreed._ He almost doesn’t believe it went that well. And if Frederick and Rob decide to leave the palace, for a time, that might be accepted too.

He’s walking back by an alcove, lost in thought, when the curtains shift. “Sir Frederick?”

He turns, startled out of his reveries. It is her scars he notices first, trailing down one side of her face.

Frederick bows to Morgan, taking a moment to compose his features. He’d given his life to protect her, but she doesn’t remember it. He feels that is worth a moment’s pause, although neither of them know the specifics. _My magic hit you here_ … _It’s why I left you for last…_ Rob’s words return to him. He almost feels the press of Rob’s fingers, gentle against his vest.

When Chrom and Robin found her, a few months before that final battle, it was clear her memories had been altered. She barely recognized Chrom, despite her distinctive blue hair, bred true in all of Chrom’s children, even little Marc. Robin had joked about how she truly was his daughter, appearing without her memories, and she became an integral part of the royal family.

Frederick has never had opportunity or necessity to speak with her alone, before this.

“Milady Morgan,” he says. “How are you?”

She gives a shrug, and buries her hands in her oversized sleeves. She’s wearing a blue cloak with ermine edges, not that distinctive purple cloak, although Frederick knows she has one, hand-tailored. It’s possible she’s outgrown it.

“Papa…” she says, barely hesitating on the word. “How is he?”

“Better,” Frederick says, after a moment’s thought. “He’s getting better.”

Morgan puts a sleeve over her mouth, and looks away, blinking a few times. “I’m… glad,” she chokes, and her shoulders start to shake.

Frederick moves to put an arm around her, but she draws herself up. “No, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I promised myself I wouldn’t…” She swipes at her eyes. “I just… want to know he’s okay.”

“He misses you,” Frederick says.

“Oh,” she says. When she looks up, it’s reminds him of those rare times Rob meets his gaze, straight-on. The effect is disconcerting. “Does he really?” Her voice is aching. “Can I see him?”

“It’s… difficult for him,” Frederick says.

“It’s difficult for _me_ ,” she croaks, and then lets out a sob.

Frederick goes to her then, and she lets him. He puts an arm around her slender shoulders, and she buries her face in his shirt. She muffles her cries, not wanting anyone to hear it, and Frederick’s chest aches for her. How many times has she hidden her sorrow? Does Robin even know how upset she is?

When she pulls away, there’s a wet spot on his vest, but they both pretend it isn’t there.

“You smell like him,” she says, and scrubs at her nose. Frederick isn’t sure if she likes it, or if she wishes Rob’s scent was on Chrom, instead. He offers her a handkerchief. She dashes it across her eyes and then blows her nose. “I miss him, so much…” she mutters as she balls up the fabric. Morgan, at least, is not under the same delusion as Chrom. She knows Rob and Robin are different.

Frederick nods, his heart breaking for her, and for Rob. “I cannot make any promises… but I will ask him if he’ll see you.”

“Oh, would you?” Morgan gives him a tentative smile through the tears that linger on her eyelashes. “Thank you, Sir Frederick.”

“Please, just Frederick,” he says.

Her eyes go wide, and for a moment he thinks she might burst into tears again. “Frederick… Can you… tell him I… He doesn’t have to be angry with…” She trails off, and touches the scars on her cheek, almost lovingly. “I know this wasn’t _him_.”

Frederick looks at her for a moment, things falling into place. She’s been close with Robin, these past few months. Have her memories returned, in part or in full? If so, he has to tell Rob - but how will he take it?

“Perhaps you should tell him yourself.”

Her eyes widen even more. “I… Yes,” she says, hiding her face in her sleeve, and Frederick can’t read anything in her posture or behavior. “I hope I can. I won’t keep you…” Morgan says, and backs away with a little curtsey.

Frederick bows, uncertain how to make her stay. He wants to speak with her, to draw her back to Rob’s rooms with him, but that could be disastrous. It will be, if he springs her on Rob. He’s heard Robin’s recounting of their last meeting, and he will do everything in his power to save Rob from that pain… but maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe this is part of it, something he needs to do.  

Frederick watches, pensive, as Morgan walks away, still sniffling, his handkerchief clutched in her hand.

~*~

The outer door is soft, but Grima senses the delicate click like a plucked guitar string. He wants to rise from the bed, to go to Frederick, but an unexplainable lassitude takes hold of his body. It is an insurmountable distance. He uncurls a bit from beneath the blankets, watching the bedroom door as the knob turns.

Frederick steps through, and moves to sit beside Grima. “It went well,” he says.

Grima takes hold of his hand and pulls him down onto the bed, across from him. Frederick smiles, amused, but goes where Grima places him. They lie, facing each other, curved together. With Frederick’s body weighing down the blankets, knees pressed against Grima’s, it almost feels as if he is hugging him.

Frederick settles his head on the pillow, across from Grima, and Grima gives him a little smile. When he touches Frederick’s cheek, the alpha turns into it, closing his eyes and breathing out. Grima cuddles a bit closer, feeling that warm breath across his face. _Alpha… comfort._

“What did he say?” he asks, with only a little hesitation.

Frederick’s brown eyes open, intense, although there’s still a bit of that softness he gets whenever Grima touches him. “He said he’s still working on letting you go.”

Grima cringes, and looks away. “I...” Hearing that the exalt said that makes his heart beat faster.

Frederick narrows his eyes - Grima can almost sense his eyebrows moving down. “He thinks of you as… his mate, still. But you’re _mine…_ and I will fight for you.”

“Don’t fight,” Grima says, eyes flying up to Frederick’s. He rises on one elbow, leaning in. “I couldn’t… stand it if you fought over _me_.”

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Frederick says, and Grima could just _melt_ into that affection, like chocolate in the sun.

“Not me,” he says. But he doesn’t protest when Frederick pulls him up against him, all awkward angles and knees, the blankets in the way. Grima breathes deep from his neck, and lets it soothe him.

Eventually, Frederick releases him, and Grima settles his cheek on Frederick’s bicep. “So, I can move?” he finally asks.

“Yes,” Frederick says, his voice vibrating Grima’s forehead. “We can move today, right now, if you want.”

“What about… my bookcase?” he says, trying to slow the stammering of his heart.

Frederick chuckles, warm and sweet. “I’d better get on that bookcase.”

Grima laughs, a little huff of air - and freezes. The emotion and motion feels strange in his body. He doesn’t know the last time he’d laughed at something amusing, at something… so simple.

He sits up, and looks down at Frederick, in among the pillows, relaxed and open. “You’re my favorite person,” Grima declares - and then drinks in all the subtle ways Frederick reacts to that. His eyebrows fall wider in surprise, his eyes glitter in that way they do when he’s intent on Grima… his mouth parts, enough to expose a flash of white teeth behind his lips.

Then Frederick smiles, and it steals his breath.

“I love you, too.”

Grima jerks back a little. His face burns, suddenly, like turning toward a fire pit. “I didn’t - That’s not-” His heart is racing in his throat, and a desperate little smile is twisting across his mouth, behind his hand. Frederick… loves him?

He buries his face in Frederick’s chest, and the alpha wraps his arms around him.

_Frederick… loves me_.

The voice has nothing to say to that, and Grima likes it that way.

~*~

While they share a quiet dinner, after an afternoon of cuddling, Frederick springs an uncomfortable subject on him.

“I saw Morgan, today,” he says, making it as casual as possible.

The name, like the exalt’s, strikes against Grima's heart. He lowers his fork, fingers white-knuckled around it. “Morgan?” he echoes.

“Yes. She is well, and happy to hear that you're doing a bit better.”

“Am I?” Grima shivers, his stomach wrung out. Why did Frederick wait until he was nearly done eating, before bringing this up? Even as he questions, he knows - because Frederick wants him to eat, and likely understands what an upsetting conversation this will be. Still, the food in his stomach burns, like he's accidentally ingested acid.

“You are,” Frederick says, adamant. “Don’t sell yourself short, Rob.”

Grima’s face tightens, and he drops his hands into his lap. Across the table, Frederick frowns, and rises, walking around the table to crouch beside his chair. Grima catches his eyes seeking out the fork in his hand, turned toward his wrist, and a wave of frustration surges underneath his skin. He tosses the fork to the table with a clatter and a meaningful glare at the alpha, who looks back, momentarily inscrutable.

Then Frederick takes his hand. “Rob, I know this is difficult for you to imagine… but I'm going to suggest it anyway.” He draws in a heavy breath. “I think you should see Morgan.”

Frederick’s face blurs, changing into her sweet, innocent smile - _Can I match you, Papa?_ \- and in the distance, someone is sobbing, begging - _Make it stop, make it stop!_

Grima recoils, but Frederick's grip is firm, keeping him from falling from the chair. He doesn't want Frederick to let go, he just… wants to get away from these memories, crowding like goosebumps along his skin. He closes his eyes, and feels the scars pulled taut against his skin as he scowls.

“I know these are painful memories,” Frederick is saying. “I know how much she means to you… but pushing her away only hurts both of you. She's hurting, too.”

“She should hate me!” Grima hisses. “I tried… I wanted her to…” He makes an awful _weak_ noise, and Frederick’s fingers brush against the back of his hand - thankfully, not his marked hand. “I made… Lucina hate me, but Morgan…” He trails off, aching, and clutches at his stomach. Morgan never hated him, even when Lucina made her own emotion clear. He loves that about her, even as he wishes he could change it. Morgan always was unflinchingly loyal.

Somehow, he looks at Frederick, raises his head and meets the alpha’s eye. There's that pity, burning at his skin, but there's also hope. Grima feels it in his own chest, fighting on. Frederick infected him with hope, with a promise of sorts… every time he calls him Rob it cracks him a little more open, lets those seeds get inside.

“I want to see her,” he says, and all his anger dissipates like mist before sunlight. “I miss her…” And Grima leans to the side, until Frederick shifts in to meet him, drawing comfort from this alpha who - impossibly - _loves_ him.

It zings up his spine, tension and awareness, and he climbs onto Frederick’s knee, where he crouches beside his chair. He misses his daughters. Grima buries his face in Frederick’s neck, and in his arms, which wrap around him, protective and supportive.

“She doesn’t hate me?” he whispers, and Frederick shivers as his breath tickles his neck.

“She doesn’t,” Frederick agrees. “She misses you, too.”

Grima squirms at that, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to vomit all over Frederick. But the queasiness passes, and he’s left with just this dread remorse, clinging to every surface. _A fresh start_ , he thinks, a little desperately.

“I'll set up a meeting,” Frederick whispers into his hair. “Somewhere… neutral. Would you like that?”

It takes more effort than Grima expects to say, “Yes.”

He's going to see Morgan. He curls around that thought, eager and tender. This could be another trap, another mistake… but he doesn’t think so. Maybe… he’s ready.

He’s going to see _Morgan_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, another chapter ALREADY? I don't quite believe it, either! (Although I don't think anyone is surprised that this story isn't done yet! I have to wrap things up, and they are just taking... too much time.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and leaving all those lovely comments, and please let me know what you thought of this update! Next chapter: Grima meets with Morgan, and moves in with Frederick!


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